


Evolution of Us

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Naruto
Genre: Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, M/M, Organ Removal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-15 04:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4592349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kakuzu and Hidan don't get along. Then again, no one ever expected them to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Violence

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old fic, started on FFN, to be finished here. All chapters are being revised and expanded throughout.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kakuzu doesn't appreciate being baited like a dumb animal.

Hidan and I don't get along.

I highly doubt anyone expected us too. I've never gotten along well with my partners, and with Hidan, there's nothing to like. He's a zealous fool with a foul mouth and no particular skill, unless you count the fact that he doesn't die. Which isn't a real skill, it's just the luck he has to be born as such (or so I assume, as no jutsu I’ve encountered behaves quite as his immortality allows). Beyond that he's weak, blinded by his stupid religion, disrespectful, conceited and boring.

Of course, if you asked him, he'd probably tell you that I'm exactly the same, only I'd be a 'faithless heathen' instead of a zealot, and 'blinded by greed'. Which, I'll admit, there is some truth there, but I still say my vision is better than his. For one, I can admit some flaw to my personality.

I hate the way he sits there, that damned book in his lap, mumbling to himself as he pours over pages he's read a thousand times, looking just as fascinated as he would if it were the first sight. I hate the way the necklace catches the light no matter which way he turns his head, glimmering in the dark as if to mock me. The way he glowers at me every so often makes me want to leave the corner I sit in and snap his head off.

Often I feel I hate him – if I could figure out how, I'd kill him. Of course, that would probably piss Pein off quite nicely, considering that sooner or later I end up killing all my partners. Hidan is relatively new, only a few weeks we've been paired, and I hate him more than I ever hated any of the others. Yet Pein, clever as he is, paired us, even though I'm sure he knew we'd never get along. He's a sadist as surely as I am.

I don't understand him, either. I doubt he wants to _be_ understood, but I can't say I really care about that. Not knowing why he does the stupid little things he does is probably part of what infuriates me so much about him. Actually, I know it is. It's a big part, and the only thing that comes even close to bothering me as much as not knowing _anything_ about him is how badly I _want_ to know. Like right now – I've given up trying to figure out exactly how much money he and his stupid religion have cost me today, and am instead trying to figure out what the hell he's reading about that would require him to look at me so very often.

I want to know what he's thinking… and I want to know (and here's that part that really pisses me off, to speak honestly) if it's really about me. I want to know if he actually thinks of me as a partner… even as another human being.

How in the world can I know, when his face is the same frustratingly hollow mask – it's worse than the way I cover my face, because you should be able to read _something_ in those eyes. But narrowed as they are in hate, furrowed though his brow is in frustration, his face says nothing of what he's thinking. Because that's the look he gives everyone, it’s not reserved specially for me.

Once again I see him look up at me, and this time he doesn't go back to his book when I catch him. He meets my eyes, and his lips stop that incessant mumbling that seems to tumble out of them whenever his little book is open. The silence is almost oppressive, and for a moment I wonder if that's what he wanted, to make me feel uncomfortable.

"What?"

Normally the tone in my voice is enough to at least give him a start, but not now. He doesn't break the eye contact, doesn't even blink. What he does is smile a little.

"You're the one staring at me, Kakuzu." He sounds so smug, like he's laid a trap and I've walked blindly into it. "I should be asking you 'what'."

Refusing to be the first to look away, I find my hands curling into fists. It’s always like this, always this irrational, unnecessary dominance battle. I want to resist, I want not to fall into the anger I know he will mock. The book in his hand flips shut, and he sets it to the side.

"Don't start with me. You won't like how I end it."

That little smile becomes a grin, his fingers steepled together over his necklace. "Is that the not-so-subtle threat that's supposed to shut me up? Not exactly creative."

My teeth clench, agitation becoming anger just like that. Yet I won't look away, I won't let him win this, and I manage to restrain myself from moving. I can see from his unrelenting smile that my reaction is just what he wanted. "This is a bad time to start this, Hidan."

"Why? You'll kill me?"

He's actually laughing at me, and while it is somewhat interesting to see his eyes flash with something other than anger, it's only making me want to hurt him more. "That's fucking hilarious. _You’re_ hilarious."

In a second my resolve breaks, I'm across the room, and his laughing face is almost smothered beneath my hand. I actually take a moment to appreciate the size difference between us- he's quite a bit smaller than I am. His eyes are still visible, and they're not afraid; shocked, but not afraid. I lean closer, so my lips are near his ear, and my voice lowers to a whisper; "I don't have to kill you, Hidan."

The shiver that I feel run over his flesh at this is very gratifying.

Without having to think about it my other hand has been pulling at his clothes – I want to get his cloak off before I start. It'll get ruined if I don't, and explaining why we need a new one would be unpleasant, so I'd just rather avoid it entirely. Of course, Hidan's struggling, but not hard – not like he should be – and the movements of his arms are actually helping me to get the heavy fabric off. Maybe on purpose, I don’t know; all I know is I need him out of the cloak, need him vulnerable.

Keeping my grip on his face, I pull the preacher up enough to finish sliding the cloak from his shoulders and throw it to the floor. I’ll teach him to look at me like that. I’ll teach him to look at me like another obnoxious pest in his way. Like I’m less than him.

Less than human.

He doesn't wear a shirt underneath, which is just as well, because it would only get ruined if he did. For that reason, I try to pull off the necklace, which I know he holds so very dear (although the thought is nothing so clear in my mind, only on reflection does such reasoning come to mind, at the moment I just see it as being in my way) but he grabs at my wrist, this time putting a real effort into stopping my motion.

I can feel his breath against my palm coming in fast, shallow gasps even though I haven't really even started yet, and he shakes his head just once. His eyes are still far too calm for my tastes, and if he's fine with it possibly getting broken, I'm willing to drop it and move on.

Those _eyes_ – it's so frustrating. They're not just calm, they're expectant; it's hard to look away from them, but I can also feel the curve of his smile beneath my hand, and I know he thinks I'm hesitating.

Pushing him back down, I shift my position, driving my knee into his stomach so when I remove my hand from his face there's no air for him to speak. With one hand near his collarbone, I can feel his heart now racing- with fear or anticipation I still can't tell, because even though his eyes are widened and slightly glazed, there's nothing in them to give away anything.

My hand is too quick for him to follow, but it's amusing to watch him try; his violet irises shimmering in the gloom, glancing down after my hand. They're still looking at my hip when the kunai whistles through the air, and then they're closed tight in visible agony, my knife buried in his side. What little breath he has left hisses through his teeth, his blood rushing hot and fast over my hand.

In the past our arguments have escalated to fights, but I've always managed to resist the urge to hurt him too badly. Because I need him functioning. Because Pein decided we need to work together. Because I’m above him and his petty shut.

The most I've done before was strangle him, and that only to make him pass out, to make him shut up for a little while. This time I feel no urge to restrain myself, and though I know now that he really can't die, I'll bring him as close to that edge as I can. I once told him I'd make dying hurt so bad he'd be begging me to finish him. That was for ruining a bounty, and I only broke his arm. Today he's only chosen the wrong moment to open his stupid mouth, but the promise holds true.

His fingers are prying weakly with the hand holding the knife, his teeth bared in a grimace… and yet his eyes show no panic, no anguish- they reflect something close to pleasure more than anything. Seeing him this way brings me a vague satisfaction that's only increased by his whimpering sigh as I drag the kunai through him, away from those scratching hands. The wound is beautiful, deep and bleeding heavily, but not enough to let him slip into unconsciousness. His hands stay on the wound even after I've removed the blade, trying to press it closed, and somehow that image of him, half naked and bleeding but still so cold to it, is breath taking. Certainly it's better than the wound alone.

Of course, lovely as the image may be, I'm far from done with him. It's easy to pull his hands up over his head, his strength seeping away in thimblefuls from the wound on his side. Knowing they'll heal completely before the morning, I push the already bloody kunai through them both, pinning them to the wall behind him.

Though my knee is now gone from his chest, he's still struggling to breathe. But his mouth gapes in a silent scream, and I wonder just how far his masochism extends… how far past the border of what he enjoys I can push him. Is his shuddering and gasping a product of shock or pain, or is it just the twisted pleasure he derives from any wound he seems to get?

I trace my fingers over the edges of the cut, mimicking his attempt at pushing it closed, and his eyes reflect confusion. It lasts only a moment, though- I enjoy the damage inflicted much more than the teasing in between, and I push my fingers into the wound. It's difficult at first, hard to move as I force my way through the layers of skin and muscle that remain; now he's getting his breath back enough to actually make a little noise.

After a minute, there's a final tear and suddenly I'm up to my wrist in his guts, my hand coated in his hot blood and my fingers brushing the organs that keep normal humans living. With Hidan, though, I know that I could pull each one out and he'd survive… perhaps that even adds to the obscene pleasure of this moment – knowing he'll last so much longer than the others.

Pushing my way in further, I can mentally map out the layout of what I pass. There is nothing unusual about the placement; he's put together like any mortal man, which is interesting to know. My fingers slip over the edge of his kidney as I work my way forward, then fumble over the rope of his intestine. I spread my fingers here, pushing against the pressure that's kept them curled thus far, and then close my hand over that thick tubing.

There is a moment of resistance; after all, humans (like any other animal) are meant to keep their organs inside, but in the end I'm stronger than the muscles of his abdominal wall. The tugging rips a low sound from his lips, one that grows in pitch and volume as I move more, and I find it encouraging. The bodily reactions of my victims (I'll not mince words, that's what they are) always amuse me; they flail or pull away or, in rare cases, they manage to kick. Hidan is different, as I expected, and he arches against my hands, as if to be closer or pull me in deeper.

I press my free hand further against his chest, still pulling, and in a flash of gore I pull out the first loop of his small intestine. There's a sound that's felt more than heard as they come loose, a sort of choked, sticking sound that I hear with my fingers as he screams for real. The organ in my hand sags heavily against his stained flesh, a weighty segment the color of a fresh bruise, and I let it go. It lies against his flawless skin, distended and out of place, while I reach for a fresh knife.

Not as anxious now, I trail the pointed end over his stomach, dragging it over the edge of the current cut and then heading further up. I press it to his neck, wondering what would happen if I cut his head off. I grin beneath my mask and wipe some of the blood from my hand onto my shirt, and only now do I realize my own good luck at having taken my cloak off much earlier. I shift tactics, stabbing the kunai into the skin over his ribs, dragging it down to put them on display.

The blood here rises faster, his heart pumping too quickly and forcing it to the surface, but I've been careful enough not to puncture any of his major arteries so the flow is a slick stream and not a jettison. It's messy though, and the worse (or better, however you want to look at it) the mess gets, the more exciting it seems, especially with the preacher whimpering and writhing beneath me.

Tossing the kunai away for now, I put both hands against the lips of the wound and begin to pull them apart. There are two immediate effects; the skin at both ends starts to tear, which provokes even more bleeding, and he screams again. This time it’s loud and shrill, and it's the _right_ sound, one of total agony… the sound I've been looking for. I pull more and the scream cuts off, his teeth closing on his lips.

"Ooh, oh God, you ass hole, that fucking _hurts_."

Suggesting that none of my earlier actions did. I take a hand off the newest wound and bring it down to that bruise-colored organ still hanging from his side, taking it in my hand and squeezing it a little – not too hard, I don't want to rupture it (all organs smell foul when opened, but none so bad as intestines) –before yanking on it again. It comes easier this time, snaking out onto his impromptu bedding with a wet smacking sound, and he arches his back and _howls_.

"I assume that hurts as well, right?" I ask, gore covered hand rising again to join its mate on his chest. "Isn't pain part of your precious _religion_? Don’t you feel _righteous_?"

Panting, his eyes finally giving off that hopeless gleam of injury, he tries to glare at me. "You'll never get it, you fucking heathen prick."

"I don’t need to,” I growl, pressing my weight unto him, _into_ him. “I can play you like a violin without knowing what you like and what you don’t."

He grimaces and goes silent, perhaps thinking I'd get some sort of satisfaction from his words, as if he's ever said anything to me that gave me an emotional response.

"…I said it hurts, fuck-face, not that I don't like it."

Startled, my hands fumble and pull a bit harder than I meant to, and the wound suddenly extends down into his pectoral muscles. Eyeing the uneven tear, I my shake my head and offer a soft 'oops'.

"Oops?! What the fuck d'you mean 'oops'?!"

I glare at him again as the tendrils leave my arm to hold the cut open for me, and perhaps there's more venom in that look now, because he actually shuts up. Maybe he only goes silent because I have him pinned (quite literally), or maybe it's because he knows what I'm about to do.

There is a great misunderstanding about the human heart. People tend to assume that it's a vulnerable organ that lays to the far left or dead center of the breast, with only a small bit of protection offered by the cage of ribs. It is, in fact, quite well protected, just as any vital organ is; it's partially hidden by the breastbone, hugged by the lungs on both sides, and then covered by the ribs.

Still, protected or not, I can still see his, glimmering as it pulsates rapidly in the dim light. Blood from the wound exposing it pools in the cavity, painting everything a crimson so dark it's really just a tint to blackness, staining my fingers even darker when I reach in and wrap my hands around the first protective rib. With a short jerk the bone snaps and the zealot shrieks, pulling at the knife keeping his arms stuck over his head. I'm not too worried about him getting free, the kunai in his hands is so deep I doubt he could pull it free from the wall even if he hadn't lost this much blood.

Each dry crack of breaking bone produces a new pitch of scream, a new kind of satisfaction as he twists against my hands. His heart is hammering against my knuckles as I seize the last curve of bone; when I glance up at his face, his eyes have rolled back into his head and he's groaning. With pain or pleasure or whatever combination gets him off I'm not sure.

"Ah, shit… Kakuzu…" My name elongated in a whisper so soft it's almost one of his prayers.

Pleasure then. Definitely. And while I know that this should make me even angrier with him, I actually find myself more excited than anything. Possibly it's just that this is the first time I've ever done what I enjoy and had the second party seem to enjoy themselves as well.

I twist my hands, gratified by that final scream. Taking a moment to savor Hidan's soft, whimpering gasps; the way his body, immortal but not immune to the effects of shock, shudders beneath me, trembling in unrelenting agony. I glance over the rest of his body. By now there's quite a mess pooling around him, leaking from the chest wound and the gouge in his side. On reflection, I'm thankful that I insisted on leaving the last village, and that the shack he finally convinced me to stay in is so clearly abandoned. There is no way of cleaning up this mess; even if there was, someone would already have interrupted from his screaming.

Following my gaze, the preacher twists to examine the damage I've inflicted thus far, laying back with another grunt of pain. "Fuck… I'm gonna pass out if you don't fucking do something with my guts."

Another grin pulls at my lips and my hand goes back to that first wound, his words drawing my attention away from my 'project' in his chest. The skin around the wound is already starting to reform, his body is used to repairing all kinds of organ and tissue damage thanks just to his method of prayer. In one quick gesture I've undone that, sliding my hand back into him. There is something infinitely satisfying about having him so completely under my control – he’s like an instrument I'm learning to play, each movement of my hand brings forth a new noise.

Fishing around for a moment, I finally find my way past the intestines (all though quite a bit of them are on the outside now, the cavity they belong in is still packed) and place a hand on the edge of his liver. I've often heard him bitch to himself after 'praying' about this organ's sensitivity.

"Does this help?"

The yelp that leaps from his lips as I squeeze down on the vital would be enough to satisfy me, but he also braces his feet to the floor and leans up against me, which is much better.

"Oh, you fuck…" He pants, his head lolling back against his shoulders as well as he can, "I'm not kidding… 'M loosing too much blood now, you ass."

Well, it's true that he's lost quite a bit of fluid, and I doubt this would be nearly as much fun with him unconscious. Even though I know I should, I'm reluctant to undo such a fine thing. But he's slipping, and I can tell he's serious about passing out.

I would never have stopped or tried to prolong the experience for anyone else, but for Hidan, who seems to enjoy this almost as much as I do, I find myself making the exception. I'm not careful in pushing his guts back into the hollow – I figure the more painful it is for him the better we'll both feel about it. Then, holding the wound to make a seam, I let another tendril loose from my arm, feeling him shiver as it sews him closed. In a second it's done, the wound sealed; within an hour the mark will look like an old scar, within a day, there will be nothing.

His body has made some progress with the wound on his chest, but the threads holding his ribs bare prevent too much healing. The bones have shifted a little trying to match up so they can knit together again, but they haven't moved enough to make a difference for me. They creak as I push my hand beneath them, reaching for that most precious organ. I can feel his gasp in the swell of his lungs beneath my wrist, his heart pounding into my palm.

Dimly, as if he's fading away, I hear him murmur my name, and I place my hand firmly on that panicking muscle. Although he seems to enjoy this mentally, his body reacts as expected – his breath coming in shallow gasps, heartbeat irregular, sweat beading on his skin. I note all this automatically, no surprise connected to what I see; the surprise is in my own reaction.

I realize, as I hold his heart in my hand, that I'm actually no longer angry; that I haven't been angry for quite a while. I'm doing this out of the sheer enjoyment of… of what I'm not sure. And he's not struggling, aside from the reactions he can't control, he's not moving. He's laying back against his arms, even smiling slightly, the tight sort of smile someone might wear while doing a difficult sort of work they enjoy. There's actually something about him right now that puts me in mind of a feline, a large cat who's been given what it wanted.

Perhaps that's what it is, perhaps that's why he was smiling so when we began that argument. He knows just what to say to piss me off, he knows what I do when I get angry… maybe this _was_ a game to him.

I've been very careful with what I've done in his chest so far. All the veins and arteries are intact; the all-important aorta remains unharmed (which is why I went through the ribs, really; breaking the sternum always carries the risk of inadvertently puncturing that thick vessel). Even now, with my hand gripping the muscle, I'm being cautious; shifting my weight so that when I lean forward, none of the pressure is put on his heart.

"Hidan," I growl into his ear, my voice still sounding cold and irritated, and when he jumps I can't help but smile a bit more. He's so perfectly responsive now. "I think I'll take this."

That look of lazy satisfaction melts away a bit, his eyes flashing open to stare at me. "Wha… what?"

I'm actually surprised he manages to speak still. "You're immortal, right,” I remind lightly, simply, as if reminding a child of his ability to blink. “You don't really need it."

He blinks rapidly, his already light skin paling. "Fa-fuck no!"

His voice is breathy, a high-pitched rasp, which isn't surprising – he’s lost quite a bit of blood now, for one thing, and for another, well… most people couldn't even stay _conscious_ with someone digging around in their chest. There's an edge to his voice, though, faint as it is; a little tinge of panic. He knows I _could_ pull his heart out if I wanted, and he knows that if I really _do_ want to, I will.

So there is a border to his masochism… a very hard to reach boundary, but there nonetheless.

My hand shifts for a better grip, his heart pounds beneath it. I don't pull, not yet, but I don't really need to. I want him to think I'm perfectly serious about this, and I can see he's coming around to that.

"It's definitely not the strongest heart I'll own, but there are some redeeming qualities…" I murmur, sounding thoughtful and contemplative, more as if I'm talking to myself than informing him. "After all, it'll be much harder for an enemy to destroy this one."

The reaction is wonderful: his eyes widen and he tries to shrink away, pulling feebly against the knife pinning his hands as if he can blend into the straw and rags beneath him. He’s shaking more now, too, all color gone now from his face. "You're… juh-joking, right?"

Shaking my head, I lift my free hand to his hair, ruffling it in a way he might interpret as fondly, and the shocked confusion in his eyes is nothing short of perfect. "You cost me a lot of money today," which is entirely true, that bounty we went after was worth quite a sum, and he completely destroyed the body, "It's only fair that I get something in reparation."

Now I do pull a little, and though I'm sure logic suggests otherwise, he leans up against my hand, a choked sob breaking from his lips.

"Bastard! I swear t' g-god!... Said I was sorry… J-just fucking _stop_ …"

Honest fear, almost agony in his voice, what a wonder.

"You'll survive," I croon at him, a snake-oil salesman’s reassurance. "Maybe even grow a new one."

"Yeah, maybe!" he snarls in that fading voice, "I've na-never fucking tried t' gu-uh… gut myself, and I'd ra-rather not… experiment with you…"

We both know he won't die if I go through with this, yet he's completely terrified by the prospect. And even though I know I don't really intend on ripping his fluttering heart out, I can see I've convinced him.

All at once I release him, carefully removing my hand, moving it to cover his mouth while the threads let loose the opening of the wound. His skin almost immediately snaps together, far more elastic that it should be at this point, and I help the healing along with another series of stitches. This time there is no grin beneath my hand, just his breath coming in ragged gasps. I lean over him, my free hand grabbing the handle of the kunai.

"Next time you try fucking with my head, I'm not going to stop," I growl, and his eyes reflect complete understanding. "I'll rip your heart out and feed it to Zetsu. If you want something, ask for it."

With a quick jerk, the knife comes loose from the wall, and I leave him gasping on the floor, his bleeding hands limp at his sides. I look at him for a minute; pale white and so seemingly frail in the spreading pool of his own blood, crimson smeared over his lips and nose, and I find that there is no satisfaction in seeing him so.

Agitated again, but this time not sure why, I turn for the door. I'd rather sleep outside than in here, listening to him bitch. It'll be a few hours before he can do much more than that. I reach for my cloak, and as I pull it over my shoulders, careful to touch my bloody fingers to it as little as possible, I hear my name. I glance at him, and he's trying to sit up, staring at me.

"You're still… a heathen prick," he grumbles, but the tone is somehow amiable, "but thanks…."

I shake my head and open the door, letting the warm night air in. After a moment, I step out, and I can hear him get ready to call after me. If he calls before I’m gone, I’ll have to stay; I can feel it, like a trap, like a punch in the belly.

"Good night, Hidan." I toss back, closing the door between us.

What exactly he meant to thank me for, I don't know. Perhaps just for letting him loose… or maybe for hurting him. Both in equal measure, I suppose. Either way, it irritates me… but not as much as the sight of him on the floor just seconds before he spoke, looking so damn fragile. He practically asked for it, he enjoyed it, up until the end. I've dismembered people who are still screaming for their lives… why the sight of one useless, preachy bastard should make me feel this way, I don’t know. I should feel satisfied- I worked out the annoyance, I taught him not to try playing his mind games with me.

Yet I'm _not_ satisfied. I'm agitated again, but it's not at that shaky, foul-mouthed zealot. I can hear him through the door, calling after me; calling me a bastard, asking where I think I'm going… finally asking me to come back.

I don't think I could go back in there, even if I wanted to.

Because Hidan and I don't get along. We can't get along; we follow two very different paths. We can work together, that much is true; we can argue and annoy each other.

But all I see when I think of what I just did is the pleasure clear on his face through the agony of my actions; all I hear is the murmur of my name, so like a prayer. Then I think of him lying so weakly on the floor, and something passes through my mind that is neither bitterness nor anger, not even annoyance. It’s closer to sadness, but that's not it, either.

I dislike not understanding my own thoughts. I know I do not like Hidan; I know he does not like me. I spend half the time he's with me wondering how I could kill him. Yet in the heat of the moment, when I had him completely helpless, I allowed him to heal… I helped him heal when he asked. I let him go even after I realized I had played right through his plan. We're nearly polar opposites, and yet for one reason or another, I feel this… _pity_ , or remorse, or whatever it is for him, because I kept going even after I knew I'd pushed him beyond his limits.

It makes no sense… I don't even like him. I hardly tolerate him.

Why in the world should I doubt myself?


	2. Hypocrisy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hidan learns firsthand that Kakuzu has a way of making a hypocrite of his partner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter includes a bit of casual sexism in Hidan's narration.

I don't doubt that he knows when I'm following him. Although I move as silent as any man has ever been able too, and though I mask my chakra signature, I still believe he knows. I'm not even surprised that he doesn't call me on it. He's completely aware that I wouldn't stop doing it if he asked – that I’m even less likely to if he ordered me.

Sometimes I think he does it just to toy with me.

But why should it bother me so much? What he does is his own business, and it's not as if it really has anything to do with me. It doesn't affect his usefulness (if one could call what he does useful) and it sure as hell doesn't alter his temperament.

It's not as if he's wasting our time (he only goes wandering when we're not busy), nor our money (I have a feeling Kakuzu _can't_ waste money), but at the same time I hate it. It bothers me in a way I can't quite understand. He probably has always done it, but things between us have been different ever since our… confrontation, I suppose you could call it. A sort of tension between us that wasn't there before, and a sort of peace.

A very stressful peace, if you can imagine that. We are painfully civil with each other, and if a fight looks evident, one of us generally walks away. We still argue, of course – pretty sure that’s unavoidable between us.

My sentiment that he is doing this to toy with me is partially spawned from this development. We do not dare enter a direct conflict again, because there was something… something… well, it wasn't wrong. Perhaps it felt too _right_ somehow; too good for both of us. We both walked away with what we wanted, even if at the end neither of us were quite as pleased with the other as we could have been.

I'm not exactly sure of what it is myself, and if it confuses me I'm sure he'll be having a difficult time wrapping his pig head around it. But for one reason or another he loves to annoy me (though I won't lie… God knows I like to pester him as well).

Likely enough, he's also still mad at me for tricking him. I'll admit, it was perhaps unwise… but I didn't plan ahead for it either, as he seems to think. You don’t just ask someone to beat the crap out of you out of nowhere, you know? I wanted to see how many buttons I could push before he blew... get to know him more, maybe. He's too arrogant to see that he might be wrong too.

I don't really care though. It was a one-time thing; the mistake will never be made again. Even though it was pretty fucking great, having someone who wasn't concerned about holding back for my sake… even when I was sure he meant to tear my heart out. He was playful in a way I don't think anyone else could be, and it was so perfect…

Well, as I said, it doesn't matter. Obviously he cares less about what happened between us than I do. Chasing after these little frail bastards… what is he playing at? I know he's really only human underneath that mask of his, no matter what strange alterations have been made to his body, and that humans have needs… but this seems below even him.

He's not particular about who he picks up, gender and age don't seem to have anything to do with his preference. He doesn’t like children, but anyone clearly above consenting age seems fair game, from shy teens to unperturbable elderly. I'd bet he goes by asking price, not that he ever gets around to paying many of them. He does seem to prefer his women bony and delicate, small of breast and hip, while he likes his men slim and only lightly toned… but he's really not picky, and his patterns do deviate every now and then.

The proof that he knows I follow him came to me not long after I started.

Many times he would finish with the poor wretch, who had joined him in hopes of making a quick dollar, and kill them when he was done. Nothing elegant, just a snap of the neck – all too easy for him. Hence, he never had to lose any money and his sex drive and blood lust were both slaked at once. Every once in a great while he would only leave the slut unconscious and take his leave – without paying, of course

Always after he'd left I would go into the room. What exactly I thought I was doing I can't say… maybe cleaning up his mess so we wouldn't get caught. The rooms always smell the same- sex and sweat and death, underneath which a muted earthy scent I've come to think of as his smell (Kakuzu's, I mean). The body would be tossed carelessly on the bed, often started to sag off one end on to the floor, and already it would be stinking.

Sometimes I only stayed in the room for a few seconds before hefting the corpse into my arms and heading to the nearest drainage ditch or garbage dump. More often I would stand in the room that still, under the stench of death and shit and early corruption, smelled of his sex and his skin, and I would seethe.

I'm not sure what made me as angry as I often became. The rage I generally aimed toward the corpse, which is irrational; I'm aware. I know the dead bastards were all just victims, but I hate each and every one of them.

If the whore wasn't dead already, I killed them myself.

I don't know why.

Lately, however, he doesn't kill his whores at all. The only reason I can see for this change is that he's leaving this task for me. I'm not going to lie and say there isn't a certain satisfaction in it for me, but I have to wonder exactly why he's doing it. If he's baiting me the way he thinks I was baiting him all those weeks and months ago (though I can still remember each detail, still feel his hand inside me) I suppose I'm walking right into it.

Though I know I should, I don't mind.

Tonight is no different than the two-dozen or so that have preceded it. After consenting to secure a room at an inn, he haggles with the keeper, while I ignore them. We never carry anything with us, so once he finally reaches an agreeable price, we move down the hall and enter the room together, and as soon as he ascertains that the room is agreeable, he leaves. He never says anything when he leaves – I'm always getting ready to pray, and he slips out while I'm busy.

Knowing that my earthly needs are sometimes greater than my spiritual pursuits, Jashin will forgive me that my prayers are often much shorter than they once were. Within twenty minutes of his disappearance, I'm shadowing him through the dingy streets.

This time his choice is a young woman, with narrow hips and tiny breasts, her hair cut so short I mistook her for a boy at first. She seems terrified of him at first, but doesn't decline his offer – they never do. I don't blame them… I'm sure he'd kill them if they tried, and I think even they can sense that.

Her ribs and spine protrude sharply beneath her top, and I'm sure that's another reason she goes with him willingly enough. He would speak to her gently enough, and she would think his appearance and his personality were two different things. This is a typical mistake of civilians… as most shinobi know, our appearances generally _do_ reflect who we are. Saying different is a way of comforting children.

But masks are his specialty, and I know from experience how well he can disguise his voice and tone to sound like someone he isn't.

Thinking she's being taken to some hotel or another to do her job, she slips her tiny hand into his, walking at his side with an extra sway in her hips. I clench my teeth and close my eyes, angry with him and pissed at her, livid because this expenditure of emotion is completely irrational. Again I'll say it – I know it's not my business what he does or how he takes care of his more animalistic desires. And I know the girl is just as a much his victim as any of the others.

And yet, I'm irritated with him, and I find that I still hate the girl, though she is likely more innocent than some of the others.

Perhaps it's her silvery blonde hair, cut so short and pushed away from her face in a way that reminds me vaguely of my own reflection. Some of the others have made me angry that way – a boy in a tiny fishing village who had my eyes, a middle aged whore whose skin was the same pale cream as my own. Seeing myself in his victims infuriates me somehow.

Leading her into a small hotel, seedier than the one he paid for us to stay the night in, he nods to the night clerk. Like usual this place asks for payment on exit, and is used to its tenants staying only a few hours. He will slip out a window when he's done, I'm sure.

I trail them with her chakara – she cannot hide hers as he has done, and it's easy enough to watch. Soon they've entered a room, and I can freely spy them through their window.

It seems he mostly allows his partners free reign in how things proceed from there, which is weird to see. With me he's constantly trying to control and assert what dominance he can, he seems to think it's a natural order in our partnership. I do not appreciate this attitude, but have little desire to allow him to prove his physical superiority in a fight. Mostly our arguments remain vocal, although I have experienced a higher number of broken limbs in his presence than I would care to think about. Obviously I don't mind the pain – it's the indignity of having him just reach out and so easily _do_ it.

This girl is obviously either not good at her chosen career or is still frightened by my partner's presence. Can’t blamed there, being as she’s just some boring civilian who’re. If he wanted to hurt her, she wouldn’t stand a chance.

She's reluctant in touching him, but touch him she does, her hands going slowly down the clasps of his cloak. As she pushes it open, over his shoulders, those crystalline green eyes of hers widen and she pulls her hands away. Yes, she's scared now, and it's easy to see why. I doubt she's ever seen a body quite like his, so scarred and stitched. I can't hear them, they're too far away, but I can see her gibber something, likely questions about how in the world this could happen. I don't think he bothers with a verbal response, his broad shoulders rise and fall in a heavy shrug, and that seems to do something for her, because she smiles.

A slim hand reaches out again to touch the bared flesh, very gently running over it, and now I'm sure she thinks she's something special, being bedded by what she likely thinks is some sort of shy hero – civilians always seem full of such shit.

She helps him with his shirt, pulls away his hood to reveal shaggy black hair that is neither extraordinarily long nor extraordinarily short. Other than his eerie eyes, there is really nothing special about his face above the mask. Though it's been nearly a year since our _brilliant_ (ha-ha, _there's_ a joke) leader paired us together, I've never even seen what he hides beneath that bit of fabric. It's not surprising to me that when she reaches for the tie, he pulls a way, turning his head in negation.

Why that pleases me so much I don’t know. It’s inexcusable.

The slight smile she’s had loses some of its tension, her posture suddenly more sure. Probably thinks he's being _shy_ or _coy_ , and she runs her hands down his chest, more confident now. My jaw clenches again, and my hands curl into fists as she steps away from him, slowly pulling away her tight shirt, bearing her fair skin inch by inch in a way I know most men would find amazingly erotic.

Her bones are clearly visible beneath the thin layers of skin and muscle, testament to years of scarce living and light eating. She clasps her thin arms between her tiny breasts for a moment, and then reaches out for his hand, placing it on her chest.

It doesn't stay there long, trailing up to her neck and then over her face, lightly brushing over her hair. The gentleness behind the action makes me itch for her blood.

All at once she's pushing him toward the bed – not that she could move him if he didn't allow it – and he nearly drops out of sight when he sits. All I can see of him now is his face, his dark eyes staring at her with the mildest form of interest as her hands start to run lightly over her body. She's twisting and arching, her body all bones and sinew as she dances, hands moving to call attention to barely present curves and every now and then dipping into the waist band of the skirt I'm sure is all she's wearing now.

They don't all take this kind of time, but I suppose she thinks she's giving him his money's worth this way.

The heathen prick does grace her with a more attentive look than he's given the others, which I really can't understand. Her body is nothing special – pale and too skinny to be really pretty; there's no surprise that she's working so hard before they've even begun, even she knows she's not that great a find.

She finally dances close enough for him to reach out and grab her by the wrist pulling her down on to the bed with him. For a moment they both disappear from my sight, and then I can see his shoulders and the top of his head. I have no real interest in watching him fuck her – I'm not a voyeur, however else this might appear – and I turn from the window, bracing myself against the trunk of the tree I'm in.

Sometimes it's hard not to just kill these _others_ , these _interlopers_ , while he's still there, before they've even started. It's not fear of his anger that keeps me from doing it (I'm sure he knows now that pain isn't enough to make me stop doing _anything_ I want)… I'm not exactly sure what it is. There is a certain pleasure to killing them with my hands, so close and while they're aware of what I'm doing. A kunai through the window would easily dispatch them, or at least scare them away if he, for some stupid reason, chose to protect them.

But that's so impersonal.

None of them are worth sacrificing. They're trash, and I wouldn't offer them to my god unless there was no other choice. I kill them quickly, without giving them a chance to scream or flail or be otherwise more annoying than they've already been.

Despise idleness though I do, there is little I can do now but sit here and wait. My rosary is in my hands, but as agitated as I am now I cannot pray. The most I can do is run the beads through twitchy fingers, try to vacate my mind and calm myself enough so that when I get my chance I don't rip the little slut apart.

I don't hate him, not like I used to… but I don't like him either. Don't ever make the mistake thinking I do. If I ever do feel that stupid bit of… of _desire_ to be around him, it's just fucking hormones. After all, _I_ don't use whores because _I_ don't want their diseases.

He's greedy, temperamental, violent, disrespectful, and a fucking heathen on top of it. Not to mention that he has no sense of humor. I hate that, he can't fucking take a joke. He's so serious, all the time. I hate how he always calls my rosary a necklace, likes its some meaningless piece of jewelry, and I hate how short his temper is… but somehow I don't really hate _him_ anymore.

It's funny; I should probably hate him more than ever after what he did to me that night in the shack, fucking _abandoning_ me there. He was just sitting there the next morning, a few yards into the trees, waiting for me to get up. It took me weeks for my guts to feel right again, but I didn't get so much as a 'morning' from him. Just that curt nod, and then we were walking again. Like nothing ever happened.

As I said, though, I don't hate him. Oh, he still pisses me off, and we argue like nobody's business, but I don't hate him. I suppose it has something to do with his actually listening to me, every now and then. I'll admit, when we first we assigned to work together, I'd already made up my mind to hate him. His lack of any sort of faith was part of it, but mostly I think it was the knowledge that every single one of his other partners had not died at the hands of his enemies, but at his own.

I found this both wasteful and stupid on his part, selfish and cruel as well. Knowing him a little better now, I can safely say that whatever else his partners may have been, they must have been persistently annoying. His temper is indeed short, but at least with me he's always restrained himself from retaliating in a lethal manner – that one night aside, of course. He manages to warn me every now and then, too.

Considering that he's told me to my face that he dislikes me more than he's ever disliked any of the partners before, I have to assume he would find it easier to warn them that he was going to do bodily harm.

Glancing at the window I roll my eyes. It's been twenty minutes, damn it. If it takes much longer, I'll have to assume at least _one_ of them isn't doing it right. My eyes turn to my hands and I study them, trying not to think of what they're doing, whether it be right or wrong.

The polish on my nails is chipping, but I have to say I don't rightly give a fuck. Prissy faggot dress code be damned, I'll paint them again when we have to head toward the base. It's ungodly that I should have to paint my nails anyway – not just my fingernails, either, but the toenails. Although it is fun to watch Kakuzu do his – he doesn't wait for the polish to chip, he just does it each week.

It's like a ritual to him, I guess. It's always on the weekend, Saturday or Sunday. He'll count up whatever money we've collect during the week (or, I should say, he's collected, since he's the one who insists on keeping it), and then he'll shower. Weekends are generally the only time I don't have to convince him to sleep inside a building that is not abandoned or flea-infested. Weekends, in other words, he seems to agree are for comfort.

Unless we're working that is. If we're working I might as well be talking to a wall for all my trouble, because he won't fucking quite until it's done.

Anyway, the ritual – he counts his money, which I generally only half-notice; I'll be praying at that point, like I generally do once we get our room. When that's done he puts everything back in his little suitcase, and gets up, heading for the bathroom.

If I've finished praying, he'll look at me to ask if I want the bathroom before he showers, but if I'm not he doesn't say a word. He showers longer than any man alive, thirty minutes at least, which I find amusing. He's always gripping about how time is money and all that shut, but give the man hot running water and watch him totally forget that little idiom.

 When he finally leaves the bathroom, he'll be dressed in clean clothes – the normal pants and sleeveless, backless shirt, and of course the mask. Then he goes back into his case and pulls out his bottle of nail polish.

He's almost feline in the way he bends, clutching his foot in the left hand and gripping the tiny brush in the right. His eyes squint in concentration as he paints carefully – I don’t care about it, and I'm messy with it, but he manages it perfectly every time. Go figure. When he's done with his feet he'll do his hands, first the left and then the right.

I don't stare at him while he's doing this. I'm not stupid, he'd only get pissed off. I watch over the edge of my bible or from the corner of my eyes. It's just so different from what one would expect, watching him during the day, and it's another way of passing the time.

A flare of chakra from the hotel, almost like a signal, and I turn my attention back to the window. There is a fleeting flicker of dark cloth, dropping from the window as expected, and then nothing. The room is empty now save for one spent slut already asleep in the narrow bed.

Quickly I move from my hiding place in the foliage and leap easily through the open window. As always the room smells used; a dingy, clinging smell of sweat and sex and musty earthy Kakuzu-scent. The whore is passed out on the bed, her arms sprawled palms up at her side, legs still open as if waiting for my partner to return to her. For a moment nothing moves, the room is still but for the whore's slow breathing and the stirring of the wind.

Like most nights, I'd just as soon have this done quickly. My eyes deny me that, moving slowly to take everything in. Our room in the inn is heavily guarded with hidden traps and seals, but this room is barren.

They always are.

The sheets are falling off the bed, one has been thrown to the floor with her clothes. A thicker quilt has been thrown over in one corner. Were she to survive, she'd have quite a mess to fix up. There are scratches on the wall from where the head board struck, and I have to close my eyes to block out the image of what caused the bed to rock that way.

When I open them, my eyes wander over the floor, noting the scattering of her clothing. Everything of Kakuzu's has been carefully collected, nothing but his scent and my memory to tie him to the room.

The wind picks up suddenly, blowing strongly through the window, and the woman groans in her sleep and her muscles tense slightly. This I hear but don't bother to see – my eyes are still looking hungrily over the floor.

Her clothing is frayed at the hems – the first to go when you're living rough is the hem, after all. The shoes by the door are worn and cracked. My assumption that she wasn't just anorexic appears validated; she's another homeless whore.

 _Well_ , I think, and now I can smile a little, _she_ was _another homeless whore._

Past tense a little early, but that's just fine. Just like the others, she was as good as dead when Kakuzu spoke to her you could almost pity the bitch..

I don't waste my time with torturing my prey the way Kakuzu likes to. That sort of game has never really done it for me, outside of a real battle when a good sacrifice makes itself known. If my enemy has done me some sort of really fucking painful injury, I'll take it slow on them, by all means. Otherwise, drawing it all out is just not my thing. Kakuzu likes to hear people scream. I'd just as soon they shut the fuck up and kick it.

This brazen bitch though, laying with her legs spread in a way that can really only mean one thing, might deserve to scream.

I do not envy the people he picks up. I don't wish I were them, or that he looked at me the way he looks at their bodies, with that hunger and knowledge of coming fulfillment. I don't crave to replace them as his form of entertainment.

I hate them all. The death I deal is well deserved.

There is no such thing as justice. I learned this when I was a child, and it's held true all my life. What I am here to do has nothing to do with distributing justice- what little concept of justice I have would only come off as warped and childish in my own mind. What I'm here to do is murder.

I know that what I'm doing has little rationality behind it. Like the state of my nails, I really don't give a shit.

Much as I'd love to see the look in her eyes with the blades dug into her chest or her guts, I didn't bring the scythe with me. It's admittedly too messy, and I'm looking to be able to remove her body. Having an arm load of pieces is more cumbersome than a single corpse. What I slide from within my cloak is much simpler, much cleaner.

When I finally move, my eyes flicker to the shadow on the floor long enough to tell me that I've been standing in that spot, listening to her breathe, smelling their sex, wanting to kill her and only toying with the idea in my mind for nearly half an hour.

So… neck or chest, chest or neck? Slash or stab, maybe cut?

One little knife, so many cheap choices. I think my thriftiness would make Kakuzu quite proud.

At the side of the bed I stare down at the girl – I doubt she's far out of her teens, certainly no older than twenty-five, and so a girl is all she is. It's the fleeting memory of his hand so gently on her neck, running up to sweetly caress her face and hair that makes my decision.

She's pale by normal standards, but next to my skin she might as well be tanned. My hands don't pass over her filthy body as his did, instead plunging into her hair, fingers tangling in the thin strands and yanking her head up and back. Having it in my hands makes me more angry than before, because it doesn't just _look_ like my hair, it _feels_ like my hair.

There is no time for a moment of confusion, of half-waking for her. She's immediately awake – having someone yanking you a full foot up by your hair tends to wake you up pretty fucking quick – and her wide green eyes shimmer with the scream she'll never get a chance to voice. My other hand is a blur slicing deep and fast through her neck, catching the carotid and jugular both. The blood bursts from the wound, the movement of my knife splashing it across the room and onto a wall.

I drop her hair and wipe the knife off on the pillow next to her head. I'm pretty sure she's beyond noticing. Her slim hands are at her throat, her eyes wide in disbelief. She sucks in a breath as I tuck the weapon back into my cloak, and chokes on the blood that goes into her lungs along with the air. When she starts hacking, the blood sprays from the wound, and vomits from her mouth. The force of the coughing pulls her into a sitting position, and she looks at me with dimly conscious eyes.

 _Help me!_ She mouths at me, unable to put any air behind it to really speak. Her hands are as red as her neck, the sheets around her are starting to get soaked. _Please, help!_  

The dumb cow, she doesn't even realize who's done this to her. She probably doesn't even understand what's happening.

Hardly able to hide my smile, I just shake my head. She won't be able to maintain this much animation for long. I turn to the wall I splattered and eye the mess. Really, that has to go if I want to leave without incriminating us.

Behind me, the low gurgle of her attempts to breathe increase. When I turn, she's collapsed back onto the bed, clutching at her throat like _that's_ going to help her. She's close now, I can tell, but her eyes follow me as I move across the room to grab her clothes.

The skirt's fabric is too coarse for what I want, but the shirt is a soft cotton thing – easily removed and put easily replaced – and that will do just fine.

Balling the flimsy garment in one hand, I look back to the blood on the wall. Against the pale, no-color wall, it's a violently red comma, running slowly toward the floor. It's been somewhere around forty seconds since I cut her; I'm amazed to hear her still fighting for breath, legs spasming as she tries to move.

Most people would have given up by now.

The shirt soaks up the blood just as nicely as I had hoped, and by the time I'm clearing up the droplets splattered across the cold floor, the twitching and gargling are gone.

 _Ding dong, the bitch is dead_.

The smile on my lips stretches as I throw the bloody cloth on the bed by the corpse, scanning the room for anything else she might have had. Nothing but the sheet on the floor, though I didn't particularly expect anything.

Most of the blood that's not on her body has ended up on the sheet balled around her. I push the clothing she'd been wearing onto her chest, and then pull the thin blanket over her. Rolling her off the bed is easy enough, and I set the carcass on the floor quietly, face down into that tin blanket. It folds over her back like a thin shroud, and I tear the pillow case off the pillow I wiped my knife on.

There are a few stains on the sheet beneath, and likely a few even on the mattress, but some of the blood is old, dried and washed and fading, and none of the stains I've left are too bad. I leave that for whatever poor soul is left to do the washing of this establishment. The pillowcase I shove unceremoniously into the folds of the blanket, which is then tied at both ends, making a loose sort of bag.

Hard part done, I set about pulling the rest of the blankets back on the bed, retrieving the quilt and laying it out. When I'm done, the room looks as if no one had been here – no rough sex, no murder. Well, except the rapidly cooling body in the makeshift bag, of course. But that will be gone soon enough.

With everything apparently taken care of, I stop moving again, looking to make sure I don't forget something critical. I find my hands clenching into claws as my eyes again migrate to the scrapped wall, where the headboard must have beaten in mercilessly to deal so much damage.

It takes me a moment before I can move again.

The door is locked, but the keys are gone. Kakuzu will have snuck them back where they belong, I have no doubt. Unless he has a stash of keys, it's what I assume he always does. Hefting the small, shit-smelling corpse with me, I take my exit via the open window, just as he did.

My landing is a bit heavier than I would have liked, but everything around me is asleep, as far as I can tell. I sense no other shinobi, at the very least – sleeping civilians all around the town, but even if they were wide awake I could still go on my way without them noticing.

The moon is only a sliver high up in the sky – just after midnight. I can't quite explain where all the time went. Even in the dark, I find my way into the trees easily, carrying my light (if unpleasant smelling) burden over one shoulder. This little town was built on the banks of a river, which makes the next part of my job easier still.

About a mile into the trees, down river from the town, I set the burden in the mud. There are a few prints on the bank, but the only human ones are too old for me to be concerned about. The water itself is filthy, a dull brown track sliding sluggishly through the woods. Still, I hunt around for a few good sized rocks, which are slipped into the opening of the sheet, before pushing her in.

For a moment the air trapped in the bundle keeps everything afloat, but the water is rapidly soaking into the cheap blanket and gravity is taking effect on all that weight.

Eventually the body will free itself from the makeshift shroud, but by that time it will be so far down the waterway that no one will recognize the whore. Assuming, of course, that anyone would recognize her by name here.

I cross my arms over my chest, not quite ready to head back to our hotel room and listen to him pretend to be asleep. We never ask each other where we've been, that sort of acting holds no use for us. We just ignore the fact that anything was different. I sigh softly and stare at the muddy water glimmering in the faint light.

Somewhere not too far behind me I sense movement, and a second later, the flare of chakra, definitely Kakuzu's signature. His voice confirms his presence even as I step closer to the water.

"No need to mope." He says lightly, and then laughs when I flip him off. He's much closer than I thought he was, and he's moving nearer all the time.

"Go to hell, already." I grumble at him, not bothering to turn. "I'm tired of cleaning up after you."

"But you're so good at it, Hidan."

His mocking voice makes me want to hit him, but I know it wouldn't do anything but make him laugh harder. Underneath the goading, derisive tone, there's a suggestion of sincerity, as if he didn't come here just to laugh at me. It's odd enough that he's even here without such a strange implication, but I'm intrigued.

"It's not like I ask you to follow me around, anyway. If you minded your own business, I'd still take care of them."

"Yep, and leave the stinking corpse to rot in the room, so when the tracker nin are sniffing about you'll have left a trail," I frown at the water, wishing he'd go away. I haven't prayed enough lately, and his presence right now makes me feel oddly on edge. "Brilliant as that sounds, I'll pass. How about you stop fucking hookers every time you get a free moment?"

Again he moves forward, so now he's right behind me, not half a foot between us. "Give me a good reason to stop," he urges, and I find a shiver trailing down my back at his tone. He sounds like he did that night in the shack, telling me he didn't need to kill me.

He's much too close, and I can't really move away- anything more than half a step and I'm moving into the water. "Get the fuck away from me, _asshole_."

"I'll make you a deal."

His voice is that low whisper that makes me have to focus very hard on not shivering again. One of his hands lands on my shoulder; I want to brush him off but I can't move.

"Don't touch me."

My voice has none of the force I need it to have.

"Equal exchange, Hidan. No need for you to follow me around, because I'll have no need to leave."

Utter sincerity. Like this is the best fucking deal in the world.

"I'm not a slut, jackass." I manage to growl, some of the anger I feel at what he's insinuating managing to work its way into my tone. It's disgusting

_but not too bad it could work out make things easier everybody gets what they want it's win win_

that he would even think of me that way. Even if I wanted to have sex with him,

_I do_

<p>which I do _not_ , I am never going to just let him _have me_. Like I said, I'm not one of his sluts.

"I'll pay you." He says, almost instantly, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound as is fingers graze my neck. I've never heard him offer money to anyone for anything so easily. "Is that what you want?"

Money is not what I want from him. A little respect, maybe a little less coldness. Not his fucking _money_.

"Let go of me."

He laughs quietly, but the hand that's resting lightly on the crook of my neck doesn't move at all. "It wouldn't be that bad, you know," He murmurs. "I can make it good for you. And you wouldn't have to be dumping any more bloody bodies."

"I am _not_ your whore." I repeat, my heart pounding hard in my chest. I'm not scared of him, but all the same I feel the adrenaline rush of emotional excitement.

"I know you're not. I'm not asking you to be." I can hear the smile in his voice, the all-knowing smirk that would make anyone want to hit him. "What I'm offering is a way to make things a little more pleasant for both of us. I won't force you." His tone finishes his sentence, saying that if he had to do that it wouldn't be nearly as fun.

There is a pause, one of those indefinably long moments that seem to have devoured most of my night already.

I don't like him.

He doesn't like me.

We've pretty much established that fact since we were assigned to work together. Moreover, I don't _want_ to like him. He is everything I hate, sewn together into one person. While I might not hate him anymore, I do _not_

_liar liar_

like him, and I sure as hell don't want him fucking me.

Without permission, my head nods, just once, firmly giving consent I had no intent on allowing. All at once his other hand is at my waist, pulling me around to face him, the hand on my neck disappearing for one brief moment. Everything moves too quickly to make any sense, and suddenly everything I've thought on the subject of him, our partnership, and sex in general is torn apart in one abrupt gesture.

Normally I would ask just what the fuck he thinks he's doing, but even if I could figure out how to move, my mouth is otherwise occupied. Instead I stand completely still, his body warm against mine, one hand on my waist, the other resting gently on my throat… my head dips back automatically, giving him better access as his tongue forces its way into my mouth. It's less of a kiss and more of him asserting dominance over me, but I can't stop him.

I don’t really want to.

It ends as suddenly as it began, his hands leaving my skin cold where they'd pressed against me. In the dark I can see him pull his mask up, but his hand still obscures the face beneath. I hardly hear him as he turns away, telling me he'll see me at the inn. He disappears back into the trees, his chakra signature flickering out just after I lose sight of him.

My hand goes to my mouth and I stumble against one of the trees, not trusting my legs to hold me. I can still feel him, his teeth closing on my lower lip, his hands pulling me closer. My heart is still slamming against my ribs, and my skin feels to hot, or the air too cold. The hand against my lips is shaking, I can't make it stop, and when I close my eyes I can almost feel him pressing against me.

Damn it, damn it, damn it. I don't _want_ this!

 _except for how i do i_ _want it more than I could ever say_

How fucking _dare_ he do that, anyway? Even if I had intended to consent to his 'deal', that gives him no reason to touch me like that.

Arrogant heathen prick.

He has no fucking respect! Just walking up and acting like I'd leap at the chance to be his fuck buddy.

" _It wouldn't be that bad, you know. I can make it good for you._ "

Bastard. Horny asshole pig. What gave him the idea that I would agree to something like that? I mean, assuming I even like guys that way,

 _not about gender not even about_ sex _its about him about how I can pick up his smell under the musk of sweat and exertion how his lips felt so strange and so nice_  

we don't get along! How the hell are we supposed to ever get around to _that_ if we're always bickering.

Not that I intend to go along with this. The nod was a mistake.

_liar_

" _I can make it good for you._ "

I can't get his voice out of my head. It doesn't help that my own mind keeps throwing out random snatches of thought that are total hypocrisy to my feelings. Thoughts that suggest some part of me wouldn't just go along with his idea, but would enjoy it.

Of course, there's nothing wrong with homosexuality. Not in my religion, anyway. Jashin has more important things to worry about than who's fucking who and what's going where. Morally I have nothing wrong with it. The problem is his assumption that I swing that way, and that if I did I would go for a sadistic sinner like him.

He said he wouldn't force me, and his tone said it wouldn't be any fun that way. Bull shit. If I don't let him now he'll never shut up about it. He'd either get angry and force me anyway, or he'd laugh until I went along with it just to shut him up.

A soft sigh escapes my lips and my hands drop to my sides. I don't really have a choice now. Hopefully he's sated himself with the bitch in the river and I won't have to deal with him tonight. If I'm really lucky, he'll already be asleep, or pretending to be, when I get back to the inn.

_hand so deep in my guts I can't breathe perfect perfect he really does know what I like he likes it too feels good for both of us_

While I start to walk, my heart finally calms a little. Still, my skin feels like its on fire… but the excitement I still feel is just hormones.

 


	3. Interlude One: Caesura to Violence

Lust is just as complicated an emotion as hate or sadness. Perhaps it's more complicated, involving a physical response as well as a mental one. It's as inexplicable as love, and as consuming as rage.

The lust for blood that plays out through my mind continually is one thing. It's easily sated, the cracking of bones and breaking of skin is the same no matter who happens to be beneath my hands. The slick feeling of blood on my palms, slapping against my face like a garish paint, that's all wonderful, but it's all the same. These ninja from Waterfall are too weak to even require my full attention, but feeling their life end at my hand brings as good a rush as any other kill.

Carnal lust is different. Different bodies, different tastes, different reactions. Finding the perfect balance between what you want and they want. Sometimes, if luck is working with you, you both want the same thing. This, I'm sure, is how it is with Hidan and I.

From the very first night, he's resisted… and I expected it, really. He's stubborn and too willful for his own good. I thought for a while that maybe his stupid religion was part of his issue, but it can't be. He'd never have consented if that was the case. Even by 'accident'.

I'm persistent, but I've never forced him. It's easy enough to tell he thinks I'm going to push him all the way, or maybe laugh him into it. I haven't, although there was a night when I came close. I just never thought Hidan would be _shy_.

Not that there's anything for him to be shy about. He's as attractive out of his clothing as he is in them. Granted, he is a bit more muscular than I usually like men, but it suits him… suits us.

He _is_ shy though, and it's actually nice, in a way. Frustrating at times, but nice. The first time I approached he was so stiff – so entirely unresponsive – that I left him alone after a few minutes. The fun of getting what I want without his permission doesn't meet my ends with this. I want him to want what I do, and I want him to _know_ he wants it.

I want us, for once, to be _together_ in something.

He watches me a lot now, out of the corners of his eyes, like he thinks I won't notice. It drives me insane, this watching (the way he doesn’t so much undress as eat me with his eyes), but I don't call him on it. The way he's looking, with eyes he doesn't want to let be hungry, is good.

Exactly when I started wanting him and not just sex, I can't say. There was a moment in that shack, I think, when my hand closed on his heart, that things started to take that turn. It seems like everything started from there – certainly I've never frequented cheap whores as often as I began to before that.

I know he doesn't want to let himself turn to me. He still looks at 'us' as two separate people who don't get along – who aren't _allowed_ to get along. What he can't seem to understand is that our lives in bed and our lives during the day do not have to match up. I think he doesn't like admitting to himself that he wants anything from another human being but their death. I'm not ashamed to admit that I find him attractive. It would be stupid to pretend otherwise – why would I want him if I wasn't attracted to him? Even when I felt I hated him, I knew he was comely, and close enough to what I like…

And of course, one must remember that I've never been able to do what I really love to another person and have them last. And that he's so perfect in pain.

Hardly a week passed after he stumbled out of the little abandoned hovel before I gave in to my urge. Amusing though it would have been to see his reaction had he discovered me, I chose a whore over trying to take care of things myself. I hoped that perhaps the distracting _need_ building in my nerves would leave me if I satisfied myself the way I really wanted to. I don't think he followed that first time, or the second… it might have been as soon as the third or as late as the sixth time I left for him to start following.

I was annoyed at first, and tried to ignore it. After a while, it became something of a joke to me, watching him after he thought I was gone. The anger on his face as he stood there… he often seemed to lose himself for long periods of time, once just standing there with his hands curled in fists for an entire hour. Then he'd throw himself into action, as if making up for lost time, pulling things across the room together to hide the fact that anyone had ever been there.

Sometimes I decided not to kill the whore. It wasn't mercy, or even really laziness on my part, it was apathy. In those cases, he killed them. He could be very creative, actually – he killed one boy with a glass vase from the dresser. The cleaning was very thorough. By the time he was finished, the room always looked as if it had never been used. By the time he got around to disposing of the bodies, I generally had already headed back to where ever we were staying.

We had entered a sort of strained truce at this time. We were careful in addressing one another, and I believe it stems from neither of us wanting to acknowledge the parallels between what we'd done in the woods and what I was doing at night whenever we were in a town. On reflection, I'm sure that if we'd argued again and things had escalated to a real fight again, I probably wouldn't have been able to stop myself from taking him.

At the time, however, I was ignoring any connection between my insatiable lust and him.

There came a point when I couldn't close my eyes without seeing him… generally bleeding on the floor beneath me, whispering my name like a prayer. God, I can still hear it, and the memory gets all my hearts pumping a little faster. I don't think anything has ever made me quite that angry. Or that hungry. My ventures out became more frequent. All the whores seemed to look like him somehow. His eyes, his hair, his skin.

Eventually, time came that didn't kill them – I couldn't. He wanted to, and I wanted to see him doing it. It had become almost something of a game between us, I think little as he wanted to admit compliancy.

The last one, the girl whose hair looked so close to his, whose eyes had the same 'fuck you' look to them underneath all the fear, was the real deciding factor. All I could think of while I was in the room with her was how much better this would be with him.

 _With him_.

And why not? The way he fumed over each and every corpse was only part of the clue that he was feeling at least some of what I was.

Most of what I did that night was on instinct. I don't know what possessed me to kiss him, only that his unconscious response to it was more of an agreement than his nod. I didn't stay long enough to see his reaction. I was too busy memorizing the perfect softness of his lips. That thirty second action eased my lust more than an hour with any of the whores I'd seen over the months.

He doesn't bother hiding his looks now- how can he? The kunai in my arm is what he's staring at, and probably the senbon prickling my chest and shoulders. We hadn't suspected an ambush (so I suppose I can give them that much credit to their stealth), and I somehow doubt he expected me to push him out of the way. I didn't expect to do it, but I don't need his help. These kids can't be long out of the academy, and their catching up to us can't be more than luck on their part.

Traveling so near to Takigakure has a few risks, after all, but if these _children_ are the best my old village has to offer I can quite honestly say I'm glad I left.

Two of them lay dead already, hardly recognizable for all the broken bones, and though the third is still alive, he's not much good to anyone now. The body of the last member falls from my hands – a battle that lasted less than five minutes and required so little. It was over so quickly Hidan never got a chance to pick himself up off the ground after I pushed him out of the way. Their reactions were so predictable I hardly needed to think at all.

My hands reach up automatically to start pulling the weapons out of my skin, ignoring the groans of the dying man. It's not until a fresh stinging pain slams into my leg that I realize how stupid it is to forget that, young and close to death or not, a ninja is always dangerous.

"Oh, you dumb fuck.”

Whether he aimed that remark at me or at the dying nin I'm not sure. However, I've only just grasped the hilt of the kunai buried in my calve when I hear the satisfying yelp and splatter that tells me Hidan is taking care of clean up yet again. He really _is_ quite good at it.

"And _you_."

I suppose he was intending his first words at the tracker then.

"You fuckin' idiot, why didn't you kill that stupid bastard _before_ trying to yank all that shit out? Did you go retarded while you were asleep?"

His tone tells me he's getting ready to rant, which I'm becoming used to. 'It's too cold' and 'it's too wet' are recently his favorite things to complain about, but the tone is unmistakable. It doesn't annoy me as much as it used to, his bitching. It's one of the things about him I've grown to accept, if only so I don't spend half my day wanting to rip him apart. After a few months of that it became rather tiring.

"You're not even fucking listening! He could have had better aim, or called for backup or some shit. And you just leave him there! I swear to fucking God, you have to be one of the _stupidest_ geniuses in the _world_!"

I stare at him, realizing that he's standing a lot closer than I thought. There's a bright splash of crimson down one cheek, and his right hand is dripping with blood. Those eyes are narrowed in a glare that's more comical than menacing, and I can't help the soft laugh that leaves my lips.

Throwing his hands up, he rolls his eyes and growls something about me being an utter jack ass. Ignoring the unpleasant feel of the senbon settling deeper into my flesh as I move, I reach out and grab his wrist as he starts to turn and pull him back. He doesn't really resist, but the look he gives me says he truly intended to. I brush my thumb over his cheek, smearing away most of the blood.

"That was a really stupid thing to say, that's all." I murmur, trying not to let my smile creep into my voice. People have been known to call me temperamental, but I truly think he's much easier to offend than I am.

He twitches away from my hand, but doesn't exactly move further back. "That was a stupid fucking thing to _do_ , asshole! And what the fuck did you think you were doing, pushing me around like that? I'm not gonna get hurt with their stupid fucking weapons, you know."

I shrug, or try to. It's actually somewhat painful with all the needles digging deeper every time I move. "Reflex." I mutter, dropping my hand from his face and begin pulling at the senbon. I actually jerk away a little when one suddenly tears free from my shoulder, and when I glare at him, he grins.

"Reflex." He says waggling the needle. "Now fucking hold still, they'll come out easier if I do it."

 


	4. Lust Unfulfilled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One step forward, two steps back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Chapter includes an OC, nudity, and extreme violence.

_Give yourself to me, let me hurt you fuck you please you. I know what you like and I know how to get you there. Want me like I want you._

_Let me cut you, bleed you, kill you. Let me tear you apart. Let me know when you're close. I want, I always want, you; in my bed, on the floor, wherever you'll let me. Scream for me, scream my name, say_ yes _, say_ please _, beg me and never ever stop. I can feel it, your blood on my hands, your nails in my skin, lets scream together. Pain, pleasure… you know I'm greedy, I want you and you and you, give me everything._

 _Tell me what hurts best, tell me when I go too far, let me hear you say it's perfect. I want to see you when it's agony and bliss together, when we're almost done and you're_ close _, let me help you get there. Scream for me and only me as everything becomes too much and you stop breathing._

_I want you wanting me, want you on your back with my teeth in your neck and your nails in my shoulders, my fist in your hair your blood on my skin. Let me give you what you want and love it. Give me everything you can and then let me take more._

_Lay with me afterward like I never let the others, stay with me and let me feel you come back. Perfect, perfect, it'll all be perfect, I'll make sure. Lay with me and in the blood and sweat when you recover we can start over from the beginning._

* * *

Each morning, waking with the same half formed images of him in my head, the same jumble of words circling my mind.

Every night, frustrating failure. Frustrating for both of us, I think. We came close last night, but in the end he pushed me away yet again. He was moody while I patched him back up, which tells me he was as agitated by the failure as I was. I do not mock him for backing out, as he expects me too, and instead leave him alone to brood. If I feign sleep, I can feel him watching me.

There has been progress, of course. Small satisfactions to prove that, sooner or later, I will get what I want.

Something has changed in the way he watches me. For one thing, the look is bolder than the furtive 'I'm not looking' glances he had been giving me for weeks now.

I am not discrete in looking at him. I know he can read my eyes by now, and that he knows what I want when I look at him a certain way. It's amusing to see his pale skin darken in a soft blush and his eyes wander off somewhere else.

He wants me. That much is obvious. Now the challenge is getting him to give in completely.

Perhaps tonight, since we're back indoors we'll have more luck. He's so damn picky about things like that, maybe that's all we need.

I love his reaction when I do something he doesn't expect. There's always this look of suspicion, as if he expects me to laugh in his face for being fooled. If I've given him something he wants, he goes quiet for a moment, waiting for me to tell him I was joking, and then he'll grin and tug on my arms to hurry me along, cheering and being generally annoying. If it's something he doesn't like, he pauses, and then sulks and whines, bitching and being generally annoying.

His reaction to my announcement that we would spend the weekend in this little town at the edge of Rain Country was pleasant. He clung to my arm and smiled that grin that isn't grateful but triumphant, pulling on me as always. His discovery that our board includes the use of the inn's onsen only excited him further.

Personally, I don't like onsens. I don't see what's so relaxing about sitting in hot water, mostly naked, generally with several other people who are trying not to stare. It's not that I care what any one thinks about me, but honestly the looks and soft mutters behind hands get very old. Hot water isn't exactly a novelty, either. I could get the same effect in a bathtub, without wanting to kill someone.

Communion, they call it. If you need to be naked and half drugged by steam to get to know someone, you probably don't need to know them anyway.

Apparently he loves them.

"It'll be fun," he insists. "You know fun, right?"

Of course I know fun. Sitting around with him, naked and unable to _do_ anything is not my idea of 'fun'.

"God, c'mon! You're so fucking uptight! You need to relax."

I find it impossible to just tell him no.

This problem has persisted since I met him. No matter how stupid he can be, how ridiculous he might seem, when he makes a request I simply cannot deny it. We'll argue, for hours sometimes, but in the end I always give in. So I know that even though I really don't want to go, I'll be joining him in the onsen soon enough. I can only hope that, since this town really is very small, there won't be many other people.

There is something in his eyes when he asks me to do something, a gleam of emotion where they are normally so hollow, and I suppose that is part of the whole difficulty. I like that there are things he wants from me that make him weak enough to show how much he wants it.

He practically drags me to the onsen, and I let him. It's late enough that shadows cover most of the water. My luck is up, there are only two other people here. Abandoning the towels previously held around our waists (a show of modesty I can't quite understand, when you're just going to be bathing naked with strangers) we step into the water. I watch him as he stretches and arches, not bothering to disguise my gaze. After a second he turns toward me, a tiny smirk on his lips. Only a few weeks ago I know he would have been offended by my blatant staring.

When I sit, he sits just beside me, hip against mine. He leans back with a sigh of contentment, head lolling on his shoulders to look up at me. The smirk is still in place on his lips, and he reaches up to brush his fingers over the mask I'm still wearing. "I can't believe you kept this on. You're such a fucking stiff."

I raise my eyebrows at him. The two strangers are staring at us (which, really, I expected) with mingled curiosity and disgust. My discomfort flares, but Hidan actually smiles, extending them his middle finger and wrapping the other arm around my neck. One of them makes a sound of offense, but Hidan pays no attention and they go quiet again. After a moment my arm encircles his waist, pulling him the rest of the way into my lap. The close contact paints a familiar blush on his cheeks, and that makes me chuckle.

"You know, for a guy who gets all pissy about going to a public bath, you're certainly liberal with the public displays of affection." He mumbles into my ear, voice low as he relaxes against me.

More amusing to me is that he, who was initially so against developing this aspect of our relationship, is now the one making the first move. The moment would actually be rather nice, were it not for the sneaking glances of our unwanted company.

And then his fingers, which I have come to appreciate by now for their slim softness and surprising strength, are prying at my mask. My initial shock is enough that he manages the task, his lips slipping over mine. It's a different sort of kiss than the one I forced on him in the woods all those weeks ago, very gentle and soft. Not at all how I'd imagine him. I can't help but return the gesture, tightening my grip on his waist as his lips part for my tongue.

The hand that had pulled away my mask slips to my hip, heading pointedly toward my groin. I catch his wrist in my hand and push back, pulling my mask up in one motion.

"Not here."

Clearly not the response he'd hoped for. His eyes narrow and his jaw sets, but instead of pushing off of my lap as I expect him to, he leans a little closer, nails digging into the back of my neck. His voice is the low, dangerous growl that I'm sure he knows by now is more of a turn on and less of a threat to me. "You're fucking joking… right?" His eyes flicker toward where the other bathers are sitting and he smiles a bit. "It's not them, right? Who gives a shit what they think? They can fucking leave if they don't like it."

Ah, what a tempting offer…

Though I do regret it, I shake my head. He seems so eager, it's a shame I have to do this. "If we get caught, we loose our room. I already paid for the weekend. They will not give me my money back. We will _not_ be doing this here."

He pouts and he clings, but I will not give in. I will give him what he wants, what we both want, in our own room. I murmur this to him and he scowls against my neck, finally pushing away from me. This is a bit of a relief… having him so close, especially when he actually is ready, asking for me… it's hard to refuse.

For a few moments he goes through the motions of bathing, his back turned to me. His exaggerated motions stretch his lithe frame, rippling the lean muscles and pulling his supple skin. Whether his goal is to entice me further or try to show what I'm missing is unclear. After a few moments of being pointedly ignored by him and surreptitious glances from our bath partners (who, I must admit, surprise me by remaining so long), he turns back to me, a tiny little smirk on his face. He comes back to my side, leaning close and twining his arm in mine to tug lightly at me.

His skin is pleasantly warm against my own, yielding when I wrap my hand around his arm. So different from my own. I seem to find the contrasts between us to be more interesting now, instead of just annoying.

"Come on, asshole. Pretty sure I'm clean enough now to get dirty." The smirk has become a grin now, and I release his arm, letting him lead me. His hand in mine, we grab our towels and together leave the onsen.

He doesn't speak as he pulls on me, nor does his grip loosen at all, so focused is he on finding our room. It is both amusing and very different. I have never seen this side of him, all consumed and intent and undoubtedly sexual. I do not understand the change, but there is a lot about Hidan that I don't understand.

A door somewhere nearby slams shut, and I find myself immediately on alert. If he noticed at all, Hidan shows nothing. Perhaps I am just overly paranoid, always prepared for attack. Or maybe he isn't prepared enough, constantly stumbling into trouble. And when it finds him, he unfailingly feels the need to run his everlasting mouth and make the situation even worse.

"Oi! You!"

I pause, and he reluctantly does the same, slowly turning his head over his shoulder, mouth already opening in some no doubt scathingly vulgar comment. The words never leave his lips, whatever he sees startling him into silence. He abruptly drops my arm, stepping away from me as he turns. Annoyed and slightly confused, I turn as well.

"Hidan! I knew it was you!"

My partner shifts slightly, managing the sort of smile reserved for acquaintances one is required to be pleasant to, but hoped not to meet again. The old man only grins, apparently oblivious to the breed of smile. He is wearing a towel, as we are, but judging by the dryness of his too-long gray hair and leathery skin, I would say he has not yet found his way to the onsen. The necklace laying on his chest is the same as Hidan's.

"Yari! What a fucking surprise…" He's much better at faking genuine emotion in his voice, and actually sounds like he's pleased. His hand tightens on the fold of his towel; I can still tell he wants to leave. I am curious to know why this old man commands so much respect from my partner, and can only assume it has something to do with their shared faith.

The old man, Yari, laughs. It's a dry sound, both without humor and without moisture, making it sound almost like a cough. "I'm surprised anything can surprise you, Hidan! You still look just as I remember you, as if you never left. And it's been years since I saw you, boy. Ageless bastard, I'd kill to understand how you do it… pardon the pun." His gaze moves to me, following the many trails of scar-tissue before finding my eyes. "Who's the tall one next to you? I thought you were too selfish for group work!"

Hidan laughs like its an old joke, which I suppose it probably is. This annoys me further, and so does his half step away from me. "Nah, this is just part of my job. I hafta follow this asshole around and we do freelance work. Pay is shit, and he's greedy as hell so we end up doing a lot of extra work."

My teeth clench, but I remain still. I cannot start something in the halls, where we would be caught, because they would kick us out, and without killing everyone here, there is no way to be refunded. There is no gain to hurting him here, and the loss is significant enough to keep me still.

"So he's your partner now? Have you been together long?"

The questions are innocent enough, but Hidan laughs again. Another joke, I have to assume. Amazingly enough, I find myself slightly jealous of the old man. He knows a part of Hidan that I do not, a side with inside jokes and history.

"We've been working together for a few months, but he's a prick. He's just a greedy asshole heathen, we don't get along."

"Just another nobody, then?" The elderly priest's eyebrows draw up, his tone reminds me of one a father might use when inquiring after a son long out of his home.

A shrug from Hidan's narrow shoulders, and he shifts a bit. "Yeah… just another fuck for me to deal with until he drops dead. I can't kill him, obviously. Against company policy."

My hands curl into fists, and it would be very easy to take his head off. Instead I grit my teeth, offer the old man a nod and turn on my heel to head back to the room on my own. I'm not interested in hearing any more of this.

It's not hearing him call me names, I'm more than used to it. It's the sheer two-faced bitchiness to it that pisses me off. After all of that in the onsen, after all but throwing himself at me and begging me to take him, after flipping off a pair of strangers for staring at us while he was getting ready to kiss me. _He_ kissed _me_ this time! The first time since I forced him in those woods, and yet he'll lie through his teeth because, for whatever reason, he doesn't want that old man to know.

The door to our room rattles in its frame as I push it closed behind me, and it's hard to resist the urge to slam my fist into the wall. The room now seems far too small, with the knowledge that sooner or later he'll be in here as well. There is only one bed in the room, and a small plush chair. The adjoining bathroom is also tiny, as things tend to be in these little inns.

There will be a confrontation, then. I cannot avoid it, and there is no way I can calm myself before he returns. I'm not sure I'll ever quite stop being angry with him.

Unable to contain myself, I bury my fist into the mattress as I sit. The bed frame whines in protest, and I suppose I'm just lucky to be able to exert enough control not to break it. There are times that I _hate_ being able to analyze situations as easily as I do. Because there is really a simple reason for my outrage in all of this.

Somehow, against my will, I was coming to _like_ being around Hidan. God! To think that for the last few days I've actually been close to enjoying his company. That I thought I might be growing fond of the hypocritical little bitch. I wanted to be around him. I wanted _him_.

And now I'm unable to help but be offended by his traitorous words, because I thought he was coming to feel the same way. It is like being trapped in a school-girl's romance story, and beyond annoying in the rawness of an emotion that I _do not want_. I have been forever cursed with a short temper… it's because of that temper that I even have to deal with Hidan. Now I'm trying to reel in the rage because I can't stand the idea of letting him have any more effect on my emotions.

When the door opens, it does so slowly, near silently. I hear him step in and close the door, but I don't look at him. My fingers have balled into the sheets because other wise I don't trust myself not to reach out at hurt him, which he would undoubtedly take the wrong way.

"You're pissed, right?"

I've never actually heard that tone in his voice before, the cautious manner that betokens an attempt at tact. When I finally look up at him, his face shows the same unsurity.

"Yes, Hidan." I respond slowly. My voice is soft, which is generally a worse sign than if I'm yelling. By now he knows that, and so surprises me by stepping nearer. I don't look away, and am for a moment reminded of the shack in the woods, the childish staring contest held between us before the mutilation began. He smiles softly at me.

"Then let me make it up to you." His hand is soft on my face, seeking to again pull away my mask. He leans closer, and I cannot help it. The cracking sound of my hand meeting his face is somewhat satisfying. He glares slightly at me, pouting even as blood trickles from his split lip. "Damn it! Don't be a bitch, Kakuzu! I'm _trying_ to apologize!"

On my feet, he's forced to look up at me, and in the split second before my hand is wrapped around his throat I see a shiver pass over his body. I lift the zealot off the floor, to my eye level, bringing him mere inches from my face so he'll have no trouble understanding me.

"How _dare_ you?" I growl, slowly squeezing on his throat. "After your catty little two-faced gossiping shit in the hall, where do you get the gall to call _me_ a bitch… or suggest that I wouldn't have a reason to be pissed off with you? You lying, hypocritical little shit… if I could figure out how, I'd kill you."

Struggling slightly in my grip, his fingers scrambling over the hand locked around his neck, he still doesn't look away. "Gah… Ah said ah… wah f'ckin s'ry…" He's struggling for breath, wasting his time trying to weaken my grasp. "Didn' know… yeh'd be sch a… liddle _girl_ abah it…"

My teeth grind together and I squeeze my hand harder, feeling his windpipe crush easily, an ugly, crisp sensation under my palm. I can only take a sick sort of glee in the fact that he obviously is getting no pleasure from this at all. After a moment of watching his lips turn blue, I shift my grip slightly and break his neck in a single gesture. It snaps loudly, and his eyes widen as I release his body, letting it crumple gracelessly to the floor.

Unfortunately, he still manages words. It's unclear how, but he continues to heckle me now, stirring my anger further. Mostly just curses and insults to my masculinity, vague annoyances. It's hard to resist the urge to start ripping him apart again, and I refrain only by holding close the knowledge that he would enjoy that. So instead I turn to the scythe he'd left leaning idly against the wall, and pull from it one of the pikes he uses in his rituals. When he sees me with it, his banter intensifies, ordering me to put it back, not to touch his things, apologizing and cursing at me.

I turn his head with my foot, and he can do nothing to stop me. His broken neck has rendered his body useless, allowing only the most feeble twitches in his fingers. His mouth opens to say something, and I silence him with a brutal downward thrust. The pike pierces through both cheeks and bores into the floor, spreading blood and making it impossible for him to speak.

There is nothing left I have to say to him. I leave him like that, naked and immobile on the floor, and head into the bathroom, relishing the silence. My body still itches to do more, to repeat the terribly pleasurable act I committed so long ago. I refuse, because I know he suffers more by me leaving him as he is. Instead I turn on the shower and step into it, enjoying the warm spray and letting it slowly relax my tense body.

Unbearably, I know that a hopelessly stubborn part of myself still wants him. It refuses the idea of being with anyone else or giving up on him. Even though I ache with the tension of so much over-extension of emotion, all his fault, part of me is still trying to become attached to him.

 _If I would have just let him have his way in that god-forsaken hot spring_ … _he was so perfect_

The thought is disgusting to me now. How is it that even as angry as I am with him, I can still think of him with such detached fondness? Even knowing that he's a selfish, conniving ass, I still find a mental picture of him to be so flawless I can only call it beautiful. It's hardly fair, but I can't stop thinking of him either.

Once I've washed the last traces of his blood from my skin, I turn the water to cold, and stand under the relentlessly freezing spray for some time. The needle-like cold forces my mind into a blank, and finally I feel some return of calm. I brace my hands on the shower walls and enjoy the emptiness for a while before finally turning off the water.

After I've dried myself, I leave the bathroom and cross the room without sparing him a glance. It will be several hours before he can move, and I don't plan on giving him the satisfaction of my attention during that period- or after it, if I can help it. Instead I lay down in the bed, looking up at the dark ceiling for a long time.

When I finally fall asleep, I find myself once again dreaming of him.


	5. Conviction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hidan has a lot to learn about his partner, even now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some mild speculation on Jashinism, casual sexism, and violence.

_Your arms hold me securely and in them I feel safe. You make me feel protected even though I know that you want nothing more than to hurt me. Between you and me the pain is just part of a deeper pleasure, something no one else will ever understand. You keep me warm._

_I should hate you, because if I feel safe here, then that means otherwise I'm insecure – that I think I need you._ _But I don't hate you, I can't anymore, and it's not fair. After all this time, why does someone like you have to come around?_

_Why do I want you this way? My life is for my god, you're nothing but another insignificant heathen. You have no respect for my faith or even this body of mine you claim to want so much. Somehow I can't believe that you're as greedy as you say- if you were you would take what you want. Instead you've warped me, changed me so now I think of nothing but you._

_I want you to hold me tighter, to keep me in your arms. I want your lips on mine, your hands on my body… I'll give myself to you if that's what it takes to make sure you stay. But now somehow I've offended you, and you pull away even as I try to hold you close._

_How dare you!? You can't leave; it's your fault I even want you near! I try to call you back, and you move faster. Though I expect your wrath in hard blows and cruel words, you leave me with nothing, fading into darkness._

_I should be relieved- without you bothering me, perhaps I can return to god. But as the last trace of you dissolves, I feel only remorse._

_Alone, I'm cold._

* * *

 

It was after midnight before I could move my arms. Sometime between winding up on the floor and finally being able to move, I succumbed to sleep despite the discomfort of my position. When I finally woke up, Kakuzu was in bed, and the moon had risen, sending pale light through the window to highlight him. He tossed in his sleep, grumbling and clenching his hands. For hours all I could do was watch him.

Not because I wanted to – my face was nailed to the floor and my neck was broken. I could hardly speak, much less turn my head. So I watched him sleep, waiting for the damage to my spine to reverse.

I seethed, laying there and watching him sleep. It was obvious he was having a bad time of it, and that filled me with some satisfaction, at least. Served the bastard right; he obviously has  _no_  idea how much it hurts to break your neck. And this whole pike through the face - completely unnecessary.

But it was hard to stay mad with him. And I wanted to, believe me. I _tried_ to apologize to him, I did! I meant it, too! He thinks I was trying to be two-faced or whatever, but I wasn't! It's just… it was bad enough having those two people hanging around and ruining things in the onsen, but then… I couldn't let Yari see _us_.

Fucking Yari… why the hell did _he_ have to be here? Of all the people to show up out of nowhere, why _Yari_? I _hate_ him; if he wasn't protected by the Script itself I would have killed him back when I first met him. But his life is his own to take - I just hope he does it soon. Old bastard thinks he's my father or something, just because he's a Jashinist too.

And I was stupid enough to _laugh_ with him… and Kakuzu can't take a fucking _joke_ , so he thinks I was being serious. Or if he knows I was just talking to Yari, he thinks I was lying about everything else. About wanting to be with him- God, he's such a _woman_!

In the end, though, I couldn't blame him for being pissed. Especially after I said those people in the onsen could go fuck themselves if they didn't like what we were doing, it was easy to think I was being two-faced. I hate when he's right, though! Being able to justify it just made me more agitated and not being able to be mad at him for being pissed off with me, I was just mad at him for the sake of being mad.

By the time I could finally move, the moon was nearly out of my view. My arms ached from being so still for so long, making it a chore to raise them and grab hold of the pike. The first few tries were useless - my hands wouldn't grip hard enough to do any good, or I couldn't pull enough. Everything was slick with cold, drying blood, which only made the process harder. A task that should have needed seconds took me nearly half an hour, and left me sweating and gasping on the ground, bleeding freshly.

For a moment I held onto the pike, and then I dropped it, deciding I had no use for it. It was another fifteen minutes before I could manage to move again, and I tried to climb to my feet.

A stupid mistake, although I'm surprised I got as far as I did. I managed to get to my feet, but my legs shaking like they were should have been a clue that I wouldn't get far. I ignored the trembling, taking a tentative step, and then another. I went down on the third, landing in a painful heap and cursing under my breath.

I ended up crawling into the bathroom, pulling myself to my feet on the counter and kicking the door closed. Luckily Kakuzu didn't wake up, or if he did, he knew it was me and decided I wasn't worth another fight. I looked horrible - my skin was waxy and blood smeared (not to mention my face had an enormous _hole_ in it), I was practically pouring sweat. Even though I'd slept for a while already, I was too tired to think of anything but more sleep.

We'd gotten a room with one bed, although two people could comfortably sleep in it. Considering what we had been planning (and I had actually been hoping to do) I doubt we would have been fighting much over the space anyway. But Kakuzu was already sleeping there and I wanted nothing to do with him; I collapsed into the tub, legs bent at awkward angles but otherwise comfortable enough, and fell asleep almost instantly. It was the deep, dreamless sleep of the dying and the ill, and I welcomed it.

Oblivion is better than the dreams I've had lately.

I woke knowing two things: Kakuzu was gone, and someone else was in our room. The chakra was familiar, but it took a while for me to place it. My luck just kept getting better: it was Yari.

My clothing had been folded and set on the edge of the counter, and my cloak was thrown over me while I slept - I doubt I'll ever get an explanation for this Kakuzu-brand kindness, but I knew Yari wouldn't have done it. Even though he likes to play dad, kind gestures are not his thing. There was a note as well, written in Kakuzu's hand - heavy, dark characters, jagged even where they should be soft.

_I'm sick of you. The room is paid for the rest of the day, so go ahead and use it. I'm moving on. Meet me at the base by tomorrow evening._

Bastard abandoned me. Again.

Yari would just have to wait, which he seemed to always be content to do. I stank, I was coated in my own dried blood, and I wanted a shower. The hot water felt nice, soothing the ache in my muscles and scrubbing away the filth. I was nauseated, and attributed it to lack of food and poor sleeping conditions, but other wise after the shower felt pretty good.

I took my time getting dressed, hoping the old bastard would take a hint and leave me alone. He lingered, of course. If there is one thing Yari is (other than a bastard), he's patient. I waited for a few minutes before finally opening the door, wondering what exactly he could want with me now.

He smiled at me when I stepped out, eyes moving instantly to the scars on my cheeks that told enough of last night's events. "So, Hidan… things did not go well last night?"

"Kakuzu has a short temper." I managed, wanting nothing more than to tell him to get the fuck out. But I've always managed to keep my manners; I didn't intend to give him the satisfaction of seeing me lose it.

I remained still as he stood, moving to stand just in front of me. He reached up, and I noticed his hands were trembling. I wondered if it was age or illness that made him shake like that, and decided I didn't care. His rough hands met my face, gently feeling the scars, and then touching my neck, which still showed bruises.

"Evidently. Was it my fault?" God help him, he actually sounded concerned. Like he really cared if he'd caused our fight.

A sigh left my lips and I pulled away from him. I've never really cared for people touching me. "Probably. No… fuck, it doesn't matter anyway. The bastard just… we don't… get along." It was evident that he wanted me to talk to him, but it's hard to say anything without giving myself away or lying. You can't lie to Yari.

Hands on his hips now, the old man stared at me. "There seems to be a lot more between you than simple disagreements, Hidan."

"It's not your business, Yari! It is absolutely _none_ of your fucking business!" The bastard blinked a few times, looking genuinely startled, as if he wasn't trying to piss me off. "It's nothing to you. It's my life and I'll deal with it my way. I don't need your advice, or your wisdom, or whatever the fuck it is you think you can give me."

"No, you don't need any of that. What you need is a wake up call." His voice was soft, not dangerous like Kakuzu's low hiss, but somehow wounded enough that I almost felt bad. "You've always been such a prideful kid."

"Don't give me that shit, Yari. This isn't pride - that fucking bastard broke my neck and nailed my _face_ to the floor. I'm pissed off, and he just fucking left me here."

"You don't talk very kindly about him, for being his lover." I couldn't help starting at him - how the hell did he _know_? He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "You think I'm blind, Hidan? I could see you two in the hallway - you were holding his hand and he was holding yours. Don't look at me that way, it's obvious. Who cares if you're a queer-boy? You've always been… I've seen the way you look at men, the way you look at women. Perhaps you spent most of your time denying it to yourself, but the rest of us? We knew."

For a moment my mouth worked silently. I couldn't believe him. When I managed to speak, my voice sounded weak to my own ears. "What do you mean you could tell?! I was fucking celibate!"

He laughed. "Hidan, celibate and refusing to have sex are two different things; a celibate makes vows knowing what he is giving up. You made no vows; you just refused what you were afraid would embarrass or unman you. And who cares? It was you who suffered, and you've always loved your martyrdom."

"We aren't lovers, Yari." Which is true - we never did get around to sex, and even if we had, fucking and making love are supposed to be two different things. I don't love Kakuzu.

"You care for him, Hidan. Remember; I see the truth. That is Jashin's gift to me."

"Well, it's a pretty shitty gift, because I fucking hate him."

"You would like to; and if you can't lie to yourself, then you would like to fool the rest of the world into believing it. But you weaken for him."

Fuming, I turned away from him. If I had continued to look at him I would have killed him. "What the fuck does it matter to you, Yari!? It's _not your concern_."

He didn't speak for a long while, and I hoped for a second that he would just leave. Finally, he said, "I told you; you need a wake up call. Perhaps I am not the one to give it to you; perhaps Jashin plans to leave that arduous task to your partner. But I knew I had made a mistake in interrupting you last night almost as soon as I had spoken. So perhaps that is why I'm here, to apologize. I am not the old-minded bastard you think I am. Times have changed since I was young, and so have customs. You do not want to be thought of as weak; you do not want to be judged. Perhaps it's not my judgment you're afraid of, but your own." He was quiet again and I heard the floor creak as he shifted his feet. "You know Jashin judges us not by our physical acts but by our conviction and by the strength of our faith. You judge yourself, and you find yourself weak. That is sad, Hidan; that is the disappointment, not that you are a gay-boy but that you have no conviction."

I said nothing to him, and waited for him to get the hint and leave. Instead he paced around me, as if restless. When he spoke again his voice had lowered to little more than a mutter. "I called you selfish, and that is exactly what you are. You use Jashin and faith as an way to validate yourself and avoid things you fear. What a shame - I had thought for a moment that you had grown up. But you are still only a willful child… yet perhaps this serves Jashin. Perhaps, and perhaps not, eh? You don't care, you care about me leaving, and I might as well save my breath and go. I will tell you something before I go, perhaps that will serve _you_. Your man went west and further into rain country, but he is not going where you think he is."

Then he was gone, leaving me alone to clench my fists and regain calm. It took me a while, but eventually I relaxed enough to realize I was still nauseous. Probably hungry, I thought, and upset. A bad combination.

Looking around the room, I realized that Kakuzu had cleaned everything up; the blood was gone from the floor and my scythe was back in the corner by the bed, pike restored to its proper place. The bed was made, blankets rumpled only where Yari had been sitting while I showered. On impulse I smoothed them back out, and then grabbed my weapon.

The inn had a nice little dining room where tenants could eat. I took a seat at one of the little tables and counted out what little money I had for myself. There is never a lot, saving money is not my specialty, but there was more than enough to get something to eat. One of the charming girls quickly took my order and reappeared with freshly cooked food, leaving me alone to the dubious pleasure of my thoughts while I ate.

When the food was gone the girl came back promptly, smiling happily as she cleared the table. She was young, probably the owners daughter, and no more than fifteen or sixteen years old. Her long black hair was held away from her face with a red ribbon and she smiled constantly with the absent happiness of a child who had known no hardships (or at least is not aware of the hardships she has faced). After she had taken the dishes away she returned with a cookie that was still warm and stood beside me while I broke a piece off and ate it.

"You came in with Kakuzu-san, didn't you?"

Her voice was as sweetly innocent as her smile, and I offered her a small smile of my own when I nodded.

"Did you two have a fight? He seemed upset when he left this morning."

I perked a brow at her and swallowed the second bite of cookie. "Did he now?"

"Ayuh. You two seemed so very close, it was surprising that he left alone."

"He decided it was better for us to travel on our own for a while."

She looked puzzled, frowning as she thought about the certain unpleasantness of traveling alone. "Oh. Well, if you don't mind me saying, sir, it was very sweet to see two people so close! He seemed to care for you very much." Her face brightened in a blush and she probably sensed that she had gone too far. She bowed and started to make her leave, then paused, her face serious even in it's anxiety. "I meant that, sir, without any disrespect. He made sure that you would be made comfortable before he left, paying for your stay and everything... I hope you two will be together again soon!"

I watched her hurry away with nothing in my head but empty shock. After a while one thing became clear: I couldn't just stay there while Kakuzu got further away - I would track his ass down and _make_ him listen to me. Besides, it would do me good to get some distance between myself and the nosy old bastard, Yari.

When I tried to pay for my food at the counter, the woman shook her head, smiling and telling me that my 'friend' had paid for me to eat before he left. The smile on her face reminded me dimly of Kakuzu, and I could tell that she had made herself a profit through my ignorance. I could have eaten whatever I wanted, judging by that look. Another Kakuzu-kindness I will never get an explanation for, I'm sure.

Kakuzu is not easy to track, I'll give him that. It's been hours since I left the hotel and I'm still not sure if I'm on his trail or only wandering west because it was the only clue I had.

About an hour after my meal at the inn, which had tasted fine (better than some of the things Kakuzu has brought back, for sure), my stomach took a turn for the worse.

When I catch him, he is going to listen to me - he fucking _better_ , in any case. His asinine trick last night got me sick, and I _hate_ being sick. I don't do it often, and it usually passes quick enough, but while I _am_ ill, it's utter hell. Like all the years I go completely healthy store up the sickness so it can all hit at once.

If only the stupid prick had just gone back to base, like we were supposed to be doing in the first place! I could find my way there without any trouble at all. But the base was to the north of the inn, not the west, and so I can only assume that he decided to go after some bounty. Which is great; he could be headed anywhere, and 'west' is not really good enough directions. He has several hours on me, and god knows how many miles. I really hate that bastard, and as soon as I'm done making him accept my apology, I'm going to tell him that.

It's late in the evening, with the sun setting (in my eyes, too, oh joy unbounded), before I get any sign of that I am going the right way. Like my sickness, it hits all at once: where there was nothing, now there's everything.

His voice is what clues me in; the deep growling shout he uses when a fight isn't going exactly the way he'd planned. I have enough time to wonder what he could possibly have gotten into that he's so excited, enough time to pull my scythe from my back and get a good grip on it, and then I'm through the trees and I can see.

There are maybe six of them against him. Which is no problem, I think, because we've been against worse odds before and he's taken care of it without breaking a sweat. But it's obviously a problem, a big problem, because not only is he sweating, he's bleeding and panting. There is a smell in the air like rot, sweet and putrid, and there are already a few other corpses on the ground.

My legs seize up and I find myself watching idly while he grabs one of them - a man who was holding a wicked looking blade on a chain - and slams him into a tree. It's the one in the center that I'm pretty sure he's after. She's hanging back and shouting orders at her comrades, and you have to give them credit for their bravery and obedience, if not for their intellect. Her hand is clamped on one of many katana and knives strapped to her sides, and all the while she's looking around for a way out.

Kakuzu keeps hold of the body he's quite thoroughly broken against that tree, and uses it the beat down another of the ninja. It would be funny, except with Kakuzu very little is amusing. Instead it's kind of scary, and I notice the stiffness in the way he's moving, like he's hurt. It's not often that he sustains any wound that hinders his movement - I am reminded of our trip through Waterfall and the young trackers that caught up with us. He was coated in their weapons and still he moved as if there was nothing more than a few scratches. I guess this must be some high-class bounty he's after then, and that the woman has some serious jutsu at her back.

Fascinated, I watch him take a step closer to the woman. She hardly seems to move, but he stumbles backward. All the sudden I feel like I really am going to puke. It's almost like slow motion; he's hit in the chest, the blade sticking out only a quarter of an inch, and he's bleeding while he falls over. My breath catches in my throat and my hands clench around the hilt of my weapon as I wait for him to sit up- he has too. Seconds tick by that feel like eternities, and he doesn't move. The woman and the last of her battered crew start to flee.

Rage clouds my vision, and suddenly I'm running from my not-so-hidden watching place. My scythe catches the first man in the back before they even realize I'm there. That leaves three, counting the bitch with the swords. Before they even turn I've flipped the scythe and pulled free the pike, plunging it into that soft spot at the nape of the neck of the second guy.

The other two turn on me with twin looks of stupid awe on their faces. There is a moment of satisfaction when the scythe cleaves through the underling's face, turning the little 'o' of shock on her lips to a howl of pain that bubbles insignificantly away as she collapses.

Now it's just me and the leader of their little group. The bitch who stabbed Kakuzu reaches for another of her swords, and I feel the air move as it comes within millimeters of my stomach. She looks further shocked that she missed, even more so when the pike enters her abdomen, passing clean through her spine. She grabs at the wound as I pull my weapon free, like she's trying to hold her blood in.

"You fucking killed him," I growl, as if explaining the unasked (but always present) question of 'why'. She gives a little groan as she falls over, and I shove pike into her chest. Still holding onto the wound in her gut, she exhales one last breath, which sends a spray of blood into the air. She's dead before her eyes even close.

Only a few minutes have passed, minutes that leave me breathless and aching, since I ran down the slight hill. My breath comes in short gasps and I can feel sweat trickling across my skin as well as blood drying to it - I'm only vaguely amazed that I didn't sustain any injuries myself. The rage that drove me seems to pass, and something like sadness replaces it. Fucking asshole; it's just like him to fucking die before I get a chance kick his ass, in the middle of a fight I was going to win, before I could get him to get over this bitchiness and finally have a little fun.

Without my orders, my legs take me to his side and I stare at him. God, its not fair - what the fuck am I supposed to do now? I want very badly to kick his stupid corpse, or scream, or something equally emotional. Instead I turn away from him and give the nearest corpse my attention, foot connecting solidly with a pair of ribs that crack as the body rolls away. Something hot rolls down my face and my shoulders shiver for a moment.

It feels like something has smashed into my chest, driving splinters against my heart and crushing my lungs, making the air in my throat burn and the taste of life in my mouth very sour. I've seen so many people die, killed most of them myself, but even the people I _liked_ didn't affect me like this. So this has to be part of being sick, not the fact that my bastard partner has gotten himself killed.

Still, I always thought… I just figured he would last at least for a little while. Bastards like him usually do - look at Yari.

"Ahhh-"

My head snaps up and my eyes open.

"Oh, damn…"

Hardly able to believe my ears I turn around slowly toward Kakuzu's supposed corpse. Moving with the slowness of the gravely wounded, he's sitting up, hand seizing the hilt of the sword that I _watched_ kill him. With a grunt of pain he pulls it out.

"That hurt." Almost bored, as if getting stabbed like that happens daily to him. "Now I have to find another heart."

I'm not even sure if I want to scream or what, but I find myself running at him, throwing myself against his chest as he gets to his feet. Normally this wouldn't move him at all, but I suppose given the situation the way he stumbles is to be expected. There is an awkward moment where his arms hang stiffly at his sides, and then they curl around my shoulders.

I can hear the thump of his heart, but I can't feel it against my cheek. His heart is still, his blood is still seeping out from the wound. His voice rumbles against my skin as I try to understand and I hush him. My hands are locked around him, and I can feel his heart beat… my eyes widen slightly.

"Oh, you cheating asshole, you weren't dead at all."

He doesn't say anything and I can imagine the look on his face, faint confusion and vague irritation. A frown I can't see because of that mask. "No. One of my hearts is ruined now… ah, you didn't know."

I would glare at him, but I am actually rather comfortable like this. "No, I didn't. You fuck-head, you could have told me sometime that you keep a few spare."

"I did."

"No, you didn't."

"Hidan, I told you I was going to take yours." He sounds like he wants to laugh at me. The bastard.

"I thought that was some creepy-ass kink of yours! Or maybe you collected them, I didn't know you could… use them, or whatever! Or at least I didn't think if you could they just… worked."

He grunts and shifts a little, hands gripping my shoulders slightly. I wonder if he's still angry with me. "So you killed them."

"I thought they killed your ass, so don't get bitchy about that. I don't give a damn about your bounty."

His shoulders lift in a vague shrug. "She was worth as much dead as alive. They didn't want her for questioning, they wanted her for execution."

My turn to grunt, and my eyes slip closed. I feel something writhe under his cloak and imagine his threads sewing closed the wound. One of his hands shifts into my hair for a moment, and then slides back onto my shoulder. "You can't still be pissed with me about Yari. I meant it when I apologized and I saved you a whole shit-load of work tracking that cunt with the swords down. Call it even, at least."

He sighs, and I can't bring any meaning out of the sound. He is hard for me to understand, but I really do like this. His arms feel so natural around me and I like the way his voice seems to vibrate in his chest and against my ear when he talks.

"… You're hot, Hidan," he says.

I roll my eyes. "You have a one-track mind. I'm fucking tired and covered in all kinds of blood and shit, not to mention that we're in the middle of the woods with a bunch of dead people. I'm not letting you fuck me out here."

He sighs again and I can imagine the frown on his lips. "That's not what I meant, idiot. I mean your _skin_ is overly warm."

"Oh. Yeah. About that." I pull away a little and he lets me go enough to look up at him. "That's your fault. Leaving me on that floor all night, naked and still wet from the fucking hot-spring. You seriously need some fucking anger-management or something, because that was major overkill."

His eyebrows raise and he tilts his head a bit to the side. "You're sick."

"I just said that. God, should I spell it?"

A little crease appears between his eyebrows, not an angry look but a curious one. "I wasn't sure if you _got_ sick. I suppose we should find somewhere to sleep then. Inside." His arms leave my shoulders and I notice a chill in the air. Or that could be part of being sick. He looks at me strangely for a moment, as if trying to figure something out. "You were crying." He doesn't even say it like a question, just states it. And he says _I_ have no tact.

"The fuck I was." I grumble turning my back on him and retrieving my weapons from the ground. "Like I would cry for your stupid ass."

Like my body is trying to defy me, I sniff slightly, and tell myself it's from the cold or whatever the fuck I'm sick with. My stomach lurches and I press a hand to it with a grimace. He says nothing, and I'm relieved that he's let it go so easily.

Without a word he walks past me and heaves up the corpse, pulling one of her swords from its sheath and quickly severing the head. He gestures for me to follow him. I assume that we'll be taking it back to wherever he has arranged to meet with his contractor, and normally I would complain about having to carry around some stinking corpse (well, part of a corpse), but I don't. I also don't bother to ask exactly where we're going or if we're still planning to reach the base tomorrow evening. Because the silence around us is almost as nice as his arms around me, and my stomach is threatening to loose itself all over if I keep my mouth open for too long.

We walk quietly side by side in silence while the sun finishes its trip down. There is something beautiful in the moment, and I'm kind of glad to be with him.

Still, I'm glad Yari isn't here. I'd hate to have to wipe the I-told-you-so smirk off his face. It would kind of ruin the moment.


	6. Interlude Two: Tender Loving Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like most medicines, a little tenderness goes a long way.

It quickly became obvious that I wasn't getting better. After a while of walking through the dark I cut off to one side of the track Kakuzu insisted on calling a 'road' and finally puked. After that I felt a little better, lighter at least, and if you've ever been really sick you might know what I mean.

Then, probably fifteen minutes later, I sort of grayed out. One minute I was keeping pace pretty well, the next I was laying on the ground. I felt Kakuzu's shoe nudging against my ribs, not quite a kick but nothing like gentle, either.

"Get up." He said.

I told him to fuck himself and managed to stand while he laughed. I'm still wondering why I'm supposed to have stopped being angry with him. He's such a prick.

When I managed the same thing another five minutes along he started his mutter about how I'm slowing him down and I should have stayed where he left me and blah-blah-bitch. Next time someone stabs him, I'll go with instinct and laugh in his face.

On the third time, he thrust the cold, fetid, bloody head into my hands and picked me up, all in one motion. It was not the careful, smooth motion one would normally make while moving a living human body; I might as well have been a bag of rocks. I told him to put me down and he replied that I had wasted enough of his time. Then he told me not to drop the head.

Always good to know where priorities lie with Kakuzu, I'd hate to ever be confused on that point.

Maybe that's not quite fair. Normally I would have thought it perfectly in his character to go on without me. He didn't. He carried me.

Like I was dirt, but he _did_ carry me.

Once we were in the village (if you can call it that) he headed first for an inn. Sometime in between entering the place and reaching the agreement of price for a single room with a single bed, I went out again. I woke up in time to be placed into the bed in our tiny, dingy room and catch the closing of the door as he went off to finish his business.

I'm not sure if I appreciate being the first order of business or if I resent being left in this cramped little room. Considering the fact that I drifted back to sleep almost immediately, I guess I might as well appreciate it.

When I woke up, he had returned. His mood was improved by the increase in his wallet, as it always is, and he was sitting on a chair beside the bed, reading. When I tried to sit up, he pushed me back down without looking up from the papers.

"You still have a fever." He informed me, as if I couldn't tell. "Stay."

Glaring at him has never been very effective. Sometimes if I was trying to bug him or get his attention it worked, but it hardly ever works as means of intimidation. Still, I should get points for trying.

"Are you hungry?"

He asked as if I wasn't trying to set him ablaze with my eyes. I gave him a very cold negative, and he shrugged.

"Are you going to puke again?"

Another chilly no. Another gentle shrug. Something cold pressed against my hand, and I looked down to see a glass of water. Which actually sounded very good. I cursed him as I lifted the glass to my lips, now allowed to sit up a bit.

"Drink it all."

There was a strangeness to his voice, not just the normal cool brush-off or command, but a sort of soft pressure mixed into it. Kakuzu-but-not. It confused me for a while, hearing him, but I soon went back to sleep. It was late in the evening and I hadn't exactly slept the best the previous day.

In the morning, I was not surprised that he was already awake, nor that he had returned to the chair beside the bed, if he ever left it. Once he noticed I was awake, he stood and pressed a hand to my forehead and rolled his eyes. "You're still sick."

"No shit, genius. You think you shake this kinda shit in a few hours?"

He stared at me blankly and I guess I got his meaning. I re-grew broken bones and healed deadly wounds in a few hours. Sicknesses are different, harder to chase off. I didn't bother to explain, though. Let him wonder. He leaves to get me water and gestures for me to sit up, handing me the cup and watching me drink.

After I finished he took the cup back into the closet-like bathroom. A horror show, that bathroom; it's about the size of a closet with the toilet and sink right one top of each other. It's kind of funny to see Kakuzu go in and out of the doorway, because he fills the whole space and looks even bigger than normal. Out of his cloak he somehow seems bigger anyway, obviously more defined and muscular - the cloak takes away from that. I wish he would take the stupid hood and mask off, but he so rarely does.

Never in my presence, actually. Probably ugly as hell under all that.

When he returned to the bedside, he cocked his head to the side and asked if I was hungry yet. I told him if I ate I would probably just throw up again in another fifteen minutes. He asked if I was hungry again, a sharpness to his voice that told me an argument would end with something broken. I said yes and he left.

Ten minutes later he returned with a little cardboard or Styrofoam cup full of hot, creamy broth. I raised my eyebrows at him and he twirled a hand impatiently in the air. It was definitely better than tap water, and didn't sit too badly in my stomach.

"Take these." He's so fucking bossy, pushing two little white pills into my free hand. I saw they were aspirin and gave him a look. He narrowed his eyes and I narrowed mine. "It helps with fever. Take it or I'll force it down your throat."

"Fine, fuck you too, fine." I muttered, and swallowed the capsules. He took the cup when it was empty and studied me for a moment. There was a difference in him that I suppose I should be grateful for, a sort of attempt at pleasantness in his body language. Of course, his voice remained unpleasant, and I'm pretty sure that he still wanted to be angry with me about the onsen and all that.

It's kind of confusing, why he bothered with all of this in the first place if he's going to act like he's still pissed off - which, by the way, I think I'm doing a great job of _not_ joining him in, even though I could. It's as annoyingly confusing as why he decided he wanted to sleep with me in the first place, and why I said yes. Finally, I asked him.

"Kakuzu," I said, when he came back from throwing out the cup and had sat down with his book again. "Why aren't we just walking back now?"

All I got again was a stare. He didn't answer me, still hasn't. I asked him probably three hours ago, and ever since I haven't gotten a word out of him. As far as I can tell, he didn't even give the question any real thought, just went back to his reading.

Patience is not a virtue I've really got much of. One of the reasons I hate being sick is that, while I feel miserable and know I can't do much, I'm always bored as all fuck. There is nothing to do while sick, I'm too tired to even focus on reading my bible. Every once and a while I'll gray out again, laying here, doze off, but I haven't really fallen asleep again.

The low, deep rumble of his voice stirs me from one of those light dozes, though I don't bother opening my eyes. I'm not sure if he's talking because he thinks I'm asleep or what. He says, "I didn't want you to get any worse. You slow me down enough as it is, and if we kept going all you would have done was get sicker and bitch about it. We'll leave in the morning."

Then I feel his hand, resting lightly in my hair, then shifting onto my forehead. I finally open my eyes, and this time looking at him is different. I've never seen him quite like this. His brow creases a bit as he studies me, as if trying to think very hard. Until now I didn't realize his hands could be gentle; they lightly touch my face to check my temperature. Normally I don't care much for _gentle_ , but with him it makes an interesting study. I never would have expected him to be so expressive - all I can see is his eyes, of course, but they are suddenly quite open, obvious. For whatever reason, he doesn't bother hiding much from me right now. They're fucking creepy, his eyes, but they're nice too. Warm, capable, knowing.

Looming over me, he exudes an air of protectiveness as he mutters for the millionth time that I still have a fever. Like I can't tell.

I'm still amazed by this whole… helping me thing. I'm willing to bet that, once I regain my health, this is going to become one of those things we just don't talk about. Well, unless I feel like being hit, which sometimes I do.

Strange, though. I always kind of thought he was one of those people who hate weakness. I'm not exactly _helpless_ this way (although you might think I was, the way he acts), but I am also nowhere near as strong as normal. I suppose I imagined we would carry on like normal. Instead, I am treated to what I shall now call Nurse Kakuzu.

He's almost worse than the trained medics, I swear. Completely in control, businesslike with a sort of underlying be-nice-to-the-sick-guy air. Only with him, it's not a forced underlying thing, it's natural. It's just not… well, normal. Normal for Kakuzu is kicking my ass for slowing him down.

His hand shifts to play with my hair for a moment. He seems to like doing this when he thinks I don't notice, and he seems to have slipped into his own thoughts.

"'Kuzu…"

He yanks his hand away faster than if I'd smacked it, and I can see his frown in his eyes. My voice is harsh, sounding about as sick as I feel, and I grin at him.

"Havin' fun yet?"

Those creepy-ass eyes roll heavenward. "Don't talk if you're just going to be stupid."

I tell him to bite me (he doesn't) and keep smiling for a moment, letting my eyes close again. I can hear him shift in place for a moment. I wonder if he's bothered to eat or if he just spends his time reading and playing with my hair and telling me I still have a fever.

My mind starts to numb with oncoming sleep and I force my eyes open again. Looking at him, my heart does that odd double-beat thing it did when I saw he wasn't dead. I don't smile this time. I've never had someone really try to take care of me before, not since I was a little kid. With anyone else I know it would be annoying, but it's not so bad with him. And there is a sweet justice to him becoming my nurse; it's his fault I'm sick to begin with.

"Play wi' my hair again."

I receive a blink for my sleepy mutter, and for a moment think I'll have to repeat myself. Then I can feel the pressure of his fingers combing through my hair, lightly grazing my scalp. I've had him pull my hair on several occasions, not a few times finding it to be rather kinky, but this sort of awkward attempt at being gentle is much nicer.

"Hurry up and get better," he orders softly, voice somewhere between commanding and sweet. It's a Kakuzu tone, and I can tell he means it for more than just wanting to get on with our journey. I seem to be learning quite a bit about him through this.

I start to drift off again and mumble a soft, "I'm workin' on it." His fingers move rhythmically and seem to help me slip back into sleep again.

Just before I'm completely out, I feel a gentle press of his lips to my forehead, and smile.


	7. Hatred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One four letter word is as good as another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes gore and sex.

Sometimes it's hard to let go of things. Little things people say just nag at the mind and it becomes impossible to forget. Normally this has a lot to do with my anger - it's always easier to get angry with someone who has pissed you off already.

I've never had it work to make me calm before. For one reason or another all I could think of while he was sick was the look on his face when I recovered in the woods. The horror that turned to disbelief and something like hope. I remembered the way he threw himself so hard against my chest that I stumbled back, and how he clung, hushing me while he tried to puzzle out my survival. I tried to be cold toward him, to be indifferent to his suffering and resume my anger with him. After all, it hadn't even been a whole day since the incident at the inn.

But while he slept I couldn't help reflecting back to things from before. The sweet sound of his smothered groans when I found just the right place to push the knife in; the gentle shivers that coursed his flesh when I sewed him up afterward. The almost shy way he let me touch him; the awkward way he would invariably cry off when the mood shifted from hurting to fucking.

Were he anyone else, I would have lost interest in this game by now, but somehow he maintains the same intrigue as he always has.

His face remained the same frustratingly hollow mask that so annoyed me when we first met, even when we fooled around - but I've felt it cracking. When he gasped, when he moaned, I could see the agony and delight flickering through his eyes and in the curve of his lips. It is interestingly pleasant to know that _I_ am the one who can break him.

Who  _will_ break him.

As he slept I thought of these things, and I remembered the delicate angle of his head as I forced that first kiss on him, while he still stank of sweat and murder by a muddy river. The way his throat was bared against my hand, like an offering or a tease. His silent agreement to a deal he still has not fulfilled his end of.

I thought of the blissful sensation of my fist forcing it's way into the ragged and bloody hole on his side, of the shrill scream of agony as I pulled at his organs. Memory of his hammering heart and throaty gasping as I opened him up further still serves to excite me.

He asked, before dozing off again, why I had allowed a break for his health. At first I didn't see a point in answering, because honestly the reason should have been obvious. I dislike stating the obvious… but as I was consumed by the whirling confusion of my own thoughts toward him, I realized that it wasn't as obvious as I'd thought.

My answer seemed sufficient enough to shut him up, because his bleary eyes only studied me for a few moments in silence.

He is annoying - the useless questions he asks says enough of that - but he is also mine. He gave himself to me when he bared his throat into my palm. That's why I protect him even when we both know I'll hurt him myself later, and that's why I tended to him while he was ill.

Once upon I time I said I hate him, and I suppose I do. He is my exact opposite, the anti-me. We argue too easily, he is too noisy, too zealous, too cocky for my tastes.

Yet, in some way I enjoy him as well. I like that he is confident enough to challenge me, where most back off at the first sign of anger. I like that he is clever enough to know exactly what, how, and when to say something to get exactly the right reaction from me; even if it makes him a manipulative little bastard, the pure wit and thought behind it amazes and often now even impresses me.

If I say I hate him, it is only fair to add that I won't ever give him up.

I watched him sleep for a while, dragging my fingers through his hair and thinking as little as possible. I do not forgive, it's not in my nature, but eventually I do stop being actively angry. For whatever reason, it seems worth more to me to allow my anger to pass quickly than to remain cold to him.

Thankfully, he was better the next morning. Not completely healed, but definitely more energetic. The fever was gone and he was alert and chatty. When we ate he commented off handedly that the bread was stale, but he didn't show any signs of throwing up again. We resumed the journey to base in relative quiet.

Unlike some of the others, Hidan and I do not often remain at the base for extended periods of time. Our unique characteristics make us more valuable on the field at all times, and so we usually stay only long enough to report back on the last mission, handing over anything we were supposed to have collected, and receive instruction for our next assignment. Sometimes we do not even go back to the base at all, simply using astral projection to make our reports.

We reached base around midday, and all was quiet as we made for Pein's office. He is always there when we show up, whether late or early. Standing before him, I handed him the tightly rolled scroll he had asked for, and reported the mission's happenings in detail while Hidan remained moodily silent. He made it expressly clear early on that he is neither supportive of nor inclined to be pleasant toward our leader.

Pointless as his stance is, I've learned to appreciate his silence during my reports. Less inane commentary means less time wasted.

When the leader asked, in the casual way he has of making such inquiries, why we were late, I said simply that Hidan had been ill. Pein accepted this without further question, and went on to describe our next task. Then he thanked us for the scroll and we left headquarters before two hours had passed.

The new mission is in Lightning Country near Kumogakure, which we will not reach in less than a week. However, the air between us is comfortable, lacking the tension to which we had both become accustomed. We walked into the night and slept only briefly, waking early enough to feel dew collecting on our robes. Neither of us had approached the other physically, and so woke up separately and distant.

Rain threatened on the afternoon of the second day, and after a few hours of his pleading, threatening, and whining, I agreed that if we reached a village before the storm broke, we would stay for the night. Of course it is his money paying for the room; this is often our agreement in such cases, because I don't mind sleeping outdoors in the rain.

Luck was on his side - we barely made it into the warmth of the inn before the rain began. He paid for a room with two beds, shooting a sidelong glance at me as he gave up the money. What the look was supposed to mean I don't know. What I do know is that the night was spent separated again; him on one bed and myself on the other, the whole room between us.

Morning came with the clearing of the storm, which had thundered and howled vigorously during the night. I woke before him, as I often do, and looked out the single, narrow window into a clear and calm morning. I left the room in my cloak, deciding to find us food so that particular argument would be avoided.

Civilians are far more clueless than they would like to think. In the world of shinobi, our cloaks are symbols of our organization, well known and feared. No member of Akatsuki could wear it near a hidden village without someone recognizing it. In these villages and towns, we wear them and little question is asked. The extravagant pattern is explained with a few simple excuses - that we are performers of some sort is the general assumption.

Not far from the inn I found a small restaurant where I purchased two sashimi bento, which were only a few hours old and a very good price. Purchase in hand, I walk back, taking my time to observe the area. Many of the leaves were blown from the trees last night, shades of gold or auburn or red, and lay soggy on the streets in clumps and puddles. Those remaining on the trees transform the flora into works of art. I have always appreciated autumn for the turning of the leaves.

The inn had a few trees of its own, and I nodded to the old woman sweeping leaves from the terrace and the child holding on to her skirt as I entered the inn.

When I walked into the room, I saw him kneeling on the floor in this little pool of light, and was suddenly stricken. Perhaps it was the light that eked through the eastern window, warm with the sun's return; maybe it was the perfect stillness of the room itself. I don't know, all I know is that he was beautiful. Not handsome or merely attractive, but beautiful.

His face was caught in complete profile, chin lifted slightly while his slim hands clasped his necklace. His rosary.

It was the regal, infinitely beautiful profile one might see on a coin; sharp and crisp and seeming to glow in the early light. Thankfully he was either ignoring my presence or had not noticed my return, giving me the time I wanted to observe and memorize what I saw. His brow was clear and swept elegantly into the chiseled down-stroke of his nose, which is straight and fine despite the many times I've personally broken it; his lips moved slightly in a silent chant, faultlessly curved and slightly pouty, leading to the exquisite sweep of his jaw. Every angle is defined in perfect, delicate alignment with the whole; all of it caught in a radiant light that softened his pale skin and highlighted everything into surreal clarity.

It was staggering, this sudden vision, and for a moment I stood frozen with my hand holding the door open, staring like an idiot. Then his head turned just slightly, and though he lost none of that ethereal beauty the spell was broken and I let the door close. He did not turn his eyes to mine as I walked to his side, favoring instead some point off in the distance through the window. The fresh sunlight caught in his silvery hair, glowing off his skin, and for a moment I was reminded of a painting. Then he _did_ look at me, eyes sparked with some vague amusement.

Many months have passed since we met, over a year. Nothing compared to the length of time I have lived, and probably nothing in his own. And yet it feel like such a short time, weeks perhaps less, since that first encounter, since I started wanting him.

Too many things have happened between us, petty fights and disagreements; we are not close. We hardly know each other in any formal respect, and yet I feel more toward him than I have ever felt toward anyone else, except maybe my mother so many, many years ago. I feel such a wide range of emotion just looking at him: annoyance, appreciation, respect (you have to respect a man who can tell you to fuck off while you break his arm), warmth, disgust, hostility, and desire. Some things that I don't have a name for, things that tug at my conscious and flee before I can understand them.

From his spot on the floor, he laughed. "You think way too much, Kuzu."

Kuzu, he's been calling me that ever since I didn't correct him in the hotel room. He seems to think the nickname is pleasant.

"And you don't think enough."

And he made those perfect lips into a little pout, creasing his eyebrows and pressing a hand to his heart, pained in every way except the glimmering laughter in those violet eyes. "Aw, that really hurts, you know! And after I went through all the work to track your ass down."

He'd shifted so he was sort of lounging at my feet, looking up at me like he was about to laugh. Remembering the food in my hands, I sat on the bed nearest him and handed him a package. "I would have come back for you eventually."

"The fuck you would have." Absolute conviction in his voice, even though I'm sure he knew I wasn't lying. "You'd have gone on doing whatever the fuck bounty sidetracked you and I would have wandered into the base alone and had my ass handed to me for 'breaching protocol' by our dick-head leader and his sidekick bitch."

I opened my meal and studied the food, which is of good enough quality that I could feel sure it was intended for human consumption. He was busy making faces at his and poking the tempura, which gave me time to think. "You're too noisy for me to risk leaving behind for an extended period of time," I finally muttered, before breaking the cheap chopsticks apart and taking a piece of almost-warm sashimi between them, pushing down my mask enough to transfer it to my mouth with a slight grimace.

He gave me one of his shit eating grins and pointed at me with his own unbroken chopsticks. "Are you saying that you think I would have given us away? Come _on_ , I am the soul of discretion." He looked at his food again and took a stab at the rice. "Man, this food is shit, did you pick it out of the trash?"

Rolling my eyes I reached for a somewhat wilted piece of octopus, not intending to grace him with a response. The bento were cheap and easy to carry, who cares if they were a little old. Then his fingers - bare fingers, not chopsticks - darted up into my platter and snatched the cephalopod, bringing it dangerously close to his mouth. "Give it back, Hidan."

A tentacle traced his lips and he laughed at me. "I like octopus." He said teasingly, and then licked it.

"So do I. That's why I got a box with some in it." I said evenly, reaching forward for my food. "You should have come and gotten your own."

Grinning unpleasantly, he pulled the little piece of meat away from me, and a tiny voice in my head reminded me that there was another octopus in my box, probably larger. But I didn't give up, anyway; for whatever reason, I couldn't. "Oh, come on Kuzu, share!"'

For a moment we grappled in a playful fight that I intended to win and with one last lurch I knocked him over on his back, pinning him. "Give it back, Hidan."

He looked recalcitrant, he looked defeated, and I was only half surprised when he crammed the little octopus into his mouth and chewed it up. Glaring up at me, he was every bit an ill-tempered child, and for a moment I didn't know whether to be amused by him or angry. Then he laughed, and it took over his whole face; for the first time I can read one thing simply, plainly on his face, and it was honest humor.

I decided to be amused.

As I started to sit up, his hands gripped onto my shoulders and pulled me back down with surprising strength. There is a second when our eyes met and I knew exactly what he was doing, then his fingers ripped away my mask, and our lips were crushed together. I could feel his heart beating a frenzied rhythm against my own, his fingers tightening on my shoulders as if afraid to let me escape, and he uttered a soft hum of pleasure as I responded. One of my hands wound up in his hair, soft and smooth and the source of some vanity for him; the other pressed against the floor to keep me from crushing him. As my fingers twisted in his hair, his tongue darted between my lips, quick and fleeting like a moth to a flower, and I felt a little tremble of lust pass down my spine.

I could hardly stand that fleeting brush of his tongue on my lips, and soon enough I dominated him, exploring his mouth slowly. I loved how he shivered against me, shaking and clutching at my bare shoulders. Kisses between us always seem violent; that one was spontaneous and eager and almost sweet.

We shifted slightly and his foot hit one of the bento, the sound seeming to break through the veil of lust that shrouded us both. I regained myself and pulled away slowly, fingers slackening in his hair and he relaxed the clutching on my shoulders. He lay breathless beneath me, hair a slivery halo around his blushing face, and he stared at me with silent fascination. Before I asked what he found so entrancing, his hand brushed lightly over my cheeks, stumbling over the thick stitching.

"You did it to your _face_?" He whispered in muted awe, and I shrugged, sitting up on my knees. He followed, eyes still running over my bare face. He had never seen me without the mask before, and as usual his response surprised me. Unlike some, he seemed intrigued and even enamored with the stitching.

"I was born with them." I said simply, handing him his bento again. He looked confused by it and I picked up my own, selecting the other piece of octopus and eating it in silence. After a moment, he seemed to accept that I was not going to touch him again, and finally broke his chopsticks. Eating quickly, he sat staring at me while I finished my food.

Once finished I picked up our garbage and disposed of it, while he went into the bathroom. Within another fifteen minutes we were both ready to leave. I began to open the door and then he spoke again. "Do you still want me?"

Interesting, that tone. Unsure and tentative, the same as when he returned to the room before I lost my temper. Normally so cocky and full of himself, hearing Hidan sounding uncertain is rather entertaining.

I shrugged and let go of the door, wanting this done before we'd gotten on the road and he tried to forget the moment. "We made a deal. I've kept my end, and you will keep yours."

Taking a single step closer to the door, eyebrows drawn together as he studied my masked face, he shook his head slightly. "Not what I mean," He mumbled, eyes darting to the side. My own brow creased as I watched him, waiting for him to continue. Finally, still not looking at me, he muttered out, "I mean… I know you're still going to be a dick about the whole thing the other day, but then you let me kiss you and you still act like you had been before. I don't give a damn about the fucking deal that I didn't want to make; I want to know if it's _me_ you want or not."

I've learned to bite back laughter more often than not, and my grin was hidden behind the mask. I only nodded slightly and closed the slight distance between us, giving him no room to move away. "I said I would have you, and I will. Right now, you're the only one I want, Hidan." Pressing himself against the wall, I could see his relief for what ever anxiety gripped him. Curious, I remain in front of him, blocking his movement. "Why?"

He licked his lips and finally looked at me, making the slightly pouty face he makes when trying to see if I'm teasing him or not. "Because I thought you would be annoyed by the two beds thing, and then I thought if I kissed you it would fix it, but you ended up pushing me away for some nasty fucking fish."

I couldn't help laughing, and the look of annoyance and vague anger on his face made it all the funnier. "There are other things to do today, Hidan." I said as he tried to push his way past me. "If I let myself be tempted by the distraction you offer, I could waste the whole day."

The pushing stopped and he looked at me again, a little smile fighting over his lips. For a moment we stayed like that, me pressing him to the wall and our eyes locked. Then he edged around me and I let him go.

When travelling, we walk mostly through unpopulated or highly rural areas, avoiding cities entirely in favor of backwater towns and villages where news is slow to travel. More often than not, I insist on skirting even those, staying to ourselves unless necessary.

When he puts his mind to being pleasant, or perhaps puts from his mind being an asshole, Hidan is not a bad traveling companion. He doesn't appreciate silence the way I do, and so talks a lot (generally blathering on about Jashin and heathens and other such nonsense) but after a while the noise washes over me and I can ignore him for a while without being annoyed. This is a technique I am learning to employ more often, he doesn't seem to mind or even notice. He talks constantly, enough for us both, until something happens to distract him or I threaten to sew his mouth shut. Mostly I remain silent, watching for anything that could present danger or profit.

In this way our journey falls into a cycle of silence, one sided muttering, one sided bitching, and me telling him to shut up. The day passes uneventfully around us, hours languidly slipping by with the miles until we're walking in the dark. The land around us has lost the trees, the road narrowed into a well trodden path of hard-packed dirt and dead grass. The nearer we get to the sea, the colder the air becomes, and the difference is magnified by the night.

We make a quick camp away from the road, nothing more than our cloaks spread on the ground for beds and a small fire. I can feel him watching me as I set about preparing a scarce meal, and when I glance at him there is an intensity to the look that puts a faint smile on my face.

Not long after the fire is dead, as I lay awaiting sleep, I feel him near me. I let him run a hand over my arm before I turn, and in the dark I can see the same intensity in his eyes. As I had often gone to him, he now comes to me; the game has changed yet again and this is his move.

The hand on my shoulder moves to my face, which is mask-less, and for a moment he looks as though he would say something. Thinking better of it, he instead leans down and catches my lips with his own, which I assume says as much as whatever he might have voiced. As the kiss intensifies, building up the same smoldering depth as the one this morning had, I sit up and push him back onto the grass. His hands slide down my sides and over the hem of my shirt, pushing it up over my back. Our lips part just far enough and for just enough time for him to pull the whole thing over my head and then we're together again.

I reach blindly toward my cloak, without much trouble finding the kunai kept there. I do not often use weapons, but the few I keep are honed and always ready; while he is distracted by the kiss I trail the point across his stomach, raising a mark that doesn't yet bleed. Then the knife slides into his skin, too slowly to be called a stab, and his nails drag slowly down my arms.

His head tilts to the side as I bury my face against his neck, feeling the heavy pulse of his heart in the warm flesh. My teeth graze the skin and he hisses, his arms tight around me, clutching hard as if he's drowning. When I bite down he arches against me and murmurs something, fingers becoming claws digging into the flesh of my back. His blood floods into my mouth and over my hand, running from the corners of my lips and pooling on his stomach. Eventually I raise my head and spit into the grass, swallowing the lingering traces before he leans up and forces his lips against my own. When I pull away the knife twists into his guts; he falls back into the grass with a shuddering groan, an alluring sheen of his own blood glossing his lips.

Chilled as the air around us is, I can feel the blood on my hand already congealing, making my fingers stiff. In contrast, his body is hot against my own, slim and perfect. I lick a bit of blood from the corner of my mouth, pulling the kunai free from his stomach and tracing it over the curve of his neck. A bit of a chuckle bursts from his lips and a hand pushes at my arm.

"Not there, dumb-ass," He murmurs as the blade passes over a pounding artery. "I'll bleed out before we get anywhere."

So I move the knife away, down his side in a mimic of the first attack, back in the shack, oh so long ago. As it passes over the exact path from the original wound, his face creases in anticipation and apprehension, both in equal measure. I continue with only a few nicks left on his skin, plunging the blade into his chest deep enough to graze his lung, close enough to make his heart falter in fear. He writhes beneath me and I produce another knife, slipping it between his ribs but too shallow to truly threaten him. Wide with pleasure and agony (which serve the same end to us), his eyes roll back into his head and he cries out as I grind my knee against his groin.

There is a certain amount of satisfaction in knowing that your partner is enjoying himself. Hearing Hidan scream in this masochist's delight is exceptional to me- no other creature could ever take so much pleasure in what I truly enjoy doing. I promised I could make it good for him; truly not a hard promise to keep. Being a sadist means making things good for him make things good for me as well.

Within the span of minutes he's writhing against me, the wonderful sensation of skin on torn, bloody skin driving my mind further and further into the sweet void of lust. My lips find his skin, teeth digging in where they can while I have forsaken the knives in favor of maneuvering him out of his pants.

The change from how things between us were and how it happens now is both extraordinary and inexplicable. Before he would have started backing out, withdrawing and refusing to allow himself to respond; now he reacts vividly to every move I make. For one reason or another I didn't expect him to be so noisy, although all things brought into consideration I suppose I should have.

Sadist though I may be, I have no interest in chaffing myself in the interest of keeping this painful for him. Reaching back into my robe, I fetch out a tube of lubricant bought just for this purpose, manoeuvring it one-handed and slicking myself up as the nails of my other hand dig into his wounded flesh.

My teeth find his neck again, just opposite of the first bite mark, and they sink in deep as I thrust into his body. He screams and jerks against me, whole body tense and rigid as his blood flows thickly again. There is a level of freedom here - I don't have to worry about killing Hidan, and am able to loose myself to this.

One of his legs locks around my waist and his nails dig deep enough into my skin to draw blood. His scratching remains on my arms, having passed close only once to one of the masks he avoids my back entirely. The noises he makes, breathy moans and curses, are as encouraging as the cant of his hips and the curve of his spine.

I make no pretense of being gentle with him and still he demands more, the words caught between a moan and breathless sob. His blood smears on my face as he tangles his fingers in my hair and pulls, surprising a low sound from my lips. His eyes glare at me in the dark, defiant and desperate and consumed, and he manages to rise up a little, twisting his body, to place his mouth by my ear. His breath is hot and ragged, and among the whimpers and panting he speaks three words that I can't help but smile at.

"I _hate_ you." He growls, and then tilts his head to crush our mouths together, trying to dominate a kiss while I control everything else. Our bodies move together roughly, dragging seconds into eternities that are simply too short. There seems a moment when neither of us breathes, when we are so close that we may as well be a single existence, and though I know in reality it is truly a _moment_ , it seems infinite.

He comes seconds before I do, clutching even closer and burying his face against my collar bone, my name on his lips. One of my hands settles on the back of his head, pressing into the soft hair as I rock into him one last time.

I pull away from him and check to make sure there are no wounds in need of immediate attention. The two deep bites on his neck are already closing over; in the morning they may be no more than bruises, or they may be gone entirely. I'm not sure which I like better. There are smears and sticky puddles of blood on his skin, but no more leaks from the wounds I inflicted.

Content and finally sated I lay back in the grass for a moment. Eventually I will have to get up and wash the various fluids from my body, but for now I fold my arms behind my head and close my eyes to the starry sky. There is no better sleep than the sleep after good sex.

The light sensation of his breath on my skin alerts me to his nearness, and the cool of the night air melts away as he presses close. One thin arm drapes over my chest, the other curls under his head, he rests his forehead against my side. I wonder if he makes an effort to surprise me, or if I was simply not meant to understand his reasoning. There is a certain level of possession in the way his arm holds me, which both amuses and annoys me. Between us, this seems to have become my normal reaction.

Lulled into comfort, I can feel his breath slowing, deepening as he slips into sleep. It would be easy to follow him, my eyes are heavy and my body tired; however I know that to sleep now would mean an unpleasant awakening later. At first he refuses to obey when I try to shake him, grumbles at me to leave him alone and holding all the tighter to me; I have to sit up to make him let go.

There is a spring close to where we've camped; I used it for water earlier when cooking our food. With much prodding and dragging on my part and cursing and whining on his, I get him over to it. The water is frigid, and he starts to shiver immediately after I push him in, snapped completely awake by the temperature even though the water hardly reaches his knees.

Despite the amount of time he wastes bitching, we are both soon enough clean, if considerably colder. Displeased with my methods, he retreats to the opposite side of the dead fire to sleep.

Dawn comes dimly, with the promise of overcast skies and bland weather. I wake with Hidan curled against my side, knees drawn to his chest as he shivers slightly in his sleep. The day before us promises to be tedious and long; we have a lot of ground to cover and nothing to do but walk. What I should do is wake him and badger him into getting dressed, bullying him into real wakefulness while I get our things together so we may leave.

This is the sensible thing, the proper thing. I don't sleep in and am not much one for simply laying around for no reason. I prefer to get an early start.

For a moment, though, it is nice to savor what I gave up last night, and a place an arm around his shoulders. While I am not a warm person in any sense of the term, his shuddering stops and he relaxes. When I try to wake him he will ask for five minutes anyway - I might as well give them to him without his needing to ask.


	8. (Never) Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hidan is going to kill Kakuzu.

I am going to kill Kakuzu.

Exactly when or how, I don't know for sure. There are things we have to do still, things we need to say and do and have done with in this life, because when I kill him I want it to be perfect. I want him to understand it, when I've made the final move and he's close to slipping forever away; I want him to know what a gift I've given him.

Jashinism is not a religion like the plethora of others practiced in the world. We don't celebrate many holidays, we rarely congregate in large groups to pray together. Jashinism is not a religion based on forgiveness of individual sins or attaining holy recognition; it's focused more on cleansing and salvation. We don't wait for Jashin to intervene in our lives, we take action for ourselves. We provide our own absolution and reward.

Sacrifice in Jashinism serves both parties involved. It cleanses the souls of the killer and the victim.

When I kill Kakuzu, I will grant him salvation. Whether he likes it or not, I'll save him from damnation.

Of course, the task I hope to accomplish is not going to be easy. My partner is not only strong but old: he knows enough about fighting to make any battle difficult for his opponent. And he knows too much about my style. So even when everything between us is right, actually killing him will be a struggle.

I can't delude myself into thinking that he will accept my offer willing. He will put up a fight; I expect no less of him.

I won't pretend that it doesn't in some way hurt to think of him dead. He's a heathen bastard but even I can't lie and act as if he hasn't grown on me. I feel naked when he isn't around. And no one could ever do the things he does to me.

There is no greater gift than Heaven, however. When the time comes, he'll know that my actions are out of mercy and caring, however queer that sounds.

Watching him sleep I sometimes wonder if it wouldn't be easier on us both if I just did it in such a moment. But I know that I would only hate myself for doing that, and Kakuzu wouldn't forgive me. In a morbid way, I look forward to the fight we'll have, and I believe he deserves to end his life fighting, as I'm sure he would want.

Perhaps killing Kakuzu will be enough to release me from this life so I can finally reach the next. Maybe serving his soul to Jashin is enough to repent whatever it is I've done to be forsaken so long to earth.

He is always such an early riser; I doubt I'd be able to kill him before he woke up anyway. It would be such a pain if he was to wake up in the middle of it… or, he might think I was being kinky. I never really know with him, he always manages to shock me.

He doesn't talk in his sleep, as I've been told I sometimes do, but he makes faces and sometimes laughs or growls. I like watching him on the rare occasion that I'm awake when he isn't. Before he used to sleep with his mask on, now I guess he doesn't see a point. Or maybe he was actually listening when I told him how stupid it was. I wonder why he bothers wearing it at all… I mean, Kisame's face is ten times uglier and _he_ doesn't bother hiding it.

I guess it's kind of laughable to think of Kakuzu as being conscious of his looks. It's unlikely that he cares at all what anyone thinks about his face or any other part of his body. Perhaps he's looking to preserve the element of surprise.

Whatever the case is, I maintain the thing is stupid. Personally, I like looking at his face; he's much more expressive than I ever thought he would be. His eyes are so strange it's hard to read emotions in them, but with his whole face bare I can read him easily. It helps that I actually find the stitching to be rather attractive. Honestly, it's such a unique look; no one has a body like his; his bloodline is as dead as the Uchiha's. The trailing scars across his body highlight his features, accentuating the power of his body and drawing attention to the sculpted muscle. His skin is otherwise without fault.

That could be because he takes a decade in the shower.

Honestly, even when we've spent a week on the road with no breaks in _real_ shelter (by which I mean man-made with a roof and running water) I am finished with my shower after fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops. Kakuzu, on the other hand, is in there for at _least_ half an hour. This is the guy who bitches about how long I take in a fight, whose favorite phrase is either 'your -insert needed organ here- is mine' or 'time is money'. He takes _forever_.

Apparently he really likes being clean too, because he'll shower, like, twice a day. For instance, he had taken a shower last night when we got the room, and now he's taking another one because we had sex. Now, my way of doing things is smarter - I waited to shower until we'd finished. One shower, I'm good, time is saved, everybody's happy. Not him though.

I'm supposed to be painting my nails now. Hands and feet, of course; we'll be making our appearance in Komukagure today and we're supposed to look 'professional'. I hate this pansy-ass shit, though. My nails do _not_ need to be painted for me to kick ass and steal shit, least of all my _toe_ nails. The situation is not helped by the fact that I suck at this particular task. I always end up with paint all over my fingers and up parts of my feet no where near the toe. My hands just weren't made for this girly grooming thing.

Why this color, anyway? It's uglier than all hell; like dried blood mixed with shit. What kind of color-blind queer is our leader to have made this part of our official uniform? More importantly, is he really going to know if I _don't_ paint my fucking nails? Unless Kakuzu tells him in our report, I don't see how he could.

Glaring at the little bottle, I consider tossing it out the window. That's how much I hate this stupid task. Of course, Kakuzu would be pissed because he needs to redo his own paint- for whatever reason my blood seems to strip the polish off and he's always digging his nails into my arms or my back. Not that I _mind_ his doing that; it's just annoying later when he gets on my case about the nail thing because he has to do his own.

Supposedly, I should be able to finish painting my nails, all twenty of them, in ten minutes. That's thirty seconds a nail for the slow students. I believe this to be impossible - some of the nails are fucking _tiny_ , and the ones on my little toes are harder than all fuck to reach without making a mess.

So far I haven't done much but glare at the bottle in my hand since he rolled out of bed and headed for the shower, tossing it to me with an off-handed order to get myself ready. I'm now considering the repercussions of leaving them untouched. Kakuzu will probably be annoyed at the very least, which isn't necessarily a bad thing these days.

After another few minutes of wondering, I hear the water finally shut off. It's really too late to start now; I'll wait until after he's finished. Maybe if I'm lucky he'll decide we're running late and I won't have to do it at all.

He steps out of the bathroom still toweling his hair, wearing his pants low on his hips and his shirt not at all. Sometimes I wonder if he is trying to be sexy or if it just happens. He's really amazingly attractive, especially when he's not focused on being pissed or making money. Like now, he's just… Kakuzu. Relaxed, or as relaxed as a shinobi ever gets.

I can never look at him anymore without him knowing. He looks at me slowly, raising his head and leveling his inverted eyes with my own. The stitching on his mouth makes it hard to tell if I'm imagining the smirk playing there or not, but I somehow doubt I am. I get the distinct impression that he smirks at me a lot when he's got that mask on.

On some levels it annoys and even angers me, the way he looks at my body. It's a possessive look, as if he thinks he owns me. And at the same time, that's exactly what I _like_ about that look; that's what turns me on. I'm willing to bet he knows that.

Too quickly, he notices that I have yet to even open the bottle, and that the only change in my nail coloring is how much of it I've flicked off during his eon-long shower. He surprises me though, only perking a brow and tossing his towel into the crappy hamper across the room. Without pause, he joins me on the bed.

"You didn't paint your nails."

Holding the little bottle out to him, I nod. The truth being obvious, there is no opposing argument. Sometimes I also wonder if he means to state the obvious, or if he says that sort of thing as a means of asking 'why'. "Apparently not."

A short little sigh leaves his lips and he makes no move to take the nail polish from me. "You're never going to do it right if you never try."

"Please don't talk to me like you're my mother. All things considered, it's fucking creepy."

Eyes rolling, he finally takes the bottle and shakes it. I lean against the wall and close my eyes, content to wait while he goes about doing his own nails. Sometimes I like watching him do it, but right now I think the motivation behind my staring might be too obvious.

It takes me by surprise to feel his hand take hold of mine, pulling my arm out strait and holding it at a slightly awkward angle. I can feel the cold of the paint just before I manage to ask what he's doing, and then the question feels stupid. He doesn't grace me with an answer (he so rarely bothers answering my questions anyway), only raises both eyebrows without looking up from my hand.

This is the first time he's ever made an effort to help me with something he doesn't _have_ to do while I'm in a state to appreciate what he's doing. While I'd love to know the motivation behind this sudden assistance, I know better than to ask. It would leave my lips sounding like a complaint, and even though that wouldn't be what I meant, that's how he would take it. There is a sort of graceless pleasant feeling to this, and I think it's better to stay silent.

For whatever reason, he's as good at this as I am bad. He makes these neat little strokes, covering the whole nail without coating the skin around them, and he's quick. It's hard to imagine Kakuzu as being particularly gentle or delicate, but he manages that too. Neither of us says a word; I unfold my legs from beneath me and let him continue his painting in silence. It is without a doubt the oddest set of minutes in my life, sitting silently while the giant man that is my partner paints my toenails.

When he finishes, he releases my ankle and warns me not to move too much. I only nod, watching to see exactly what he'll do next. Predictably, he silently turns the brush on his own nails.

Nearly fifteen minutes later, after both of us are dry of nail and ready to get moving, he grabs his mask and starts to pull it on. I want to tell him to leave it off, but I know there's no point. In the past few days, since the first time we had sex (which might as well have been the first time I had sex at all, as long as it had been between that and the last), I have thought about telling him how much more I like his face without the mask. I am well aware of the stupidity and sentimentality behind that sentiment, but it's true. Its part of the reason that I know I'm going to have to kill him.

Instead of saying anything, I hook an arm around his shoulders, catching him off guard and stealing a quick but fierce kiss. The best part about doing that with him is that he never fails to respond, however briefly. I like kissing him, especially when he doesn't expect it. It preserves at least some of my dominance in this.

Of course, it's a brief gesture. He pushes me away after only a few seconds, looking undeniably smug as he pulls his mask the rest of the way on.

We leave the inn and step immediately into freezing air. It's cold enough to have put a frost on the grass, and knowing my luck with weather it won't get any warmer throughout the day. I hate being cold and I say so. Saying anything only earns me a brief glance and more of Kakuzu's wit.

"If you're so cold, close your cloak the rest of the way."

Jackass. Like he doesn't _love_ the way I wear this stupid thing. Instead of dignifying such stupidity with a response, I wrap my arms around myself and pretend I hadn't said anything to begin with.

As always, neither of us are really concerned about the mission at this point. There are few things that really stand as a challenge to us, and fewer things that manage to catch us off guard. This is routine find-and-retrieve work; the only reason it could even possibly be considered dangerous is the amount of protection lying around the object we want to steal. Of course, it's another book; there is little in the world of shinobi more valuable than information. This book apparently has some very useful information about three of the bijuu known to have been incarnated around and in Lightning country. More importantly, it has information that, in the hands of opposition, could give a clue to what it is our Leader has planned.

This all sounds amazingly boring to me, but it's long been obvious that my tastes do not coincide with Pein's.

Unlike the book we want, the entrance to Kumogakure is rather poorly guarded. Kakuzu is a very _efficient_ shinobi, but he's really not a terribly talented one. His idea of stealth is killing the observant people before they can call attention to us. So our entrance to the village is very obvious, as it always has and always will be. The streets of this place are narrow and winding, making the whole village maze-like; I suppose the purpose is to confuse outsiders. This might just work, if we hadn't been given a map to study.

Wherever our Leader gets his information from, it's good, and always accurate. You have to respect that, even if there's nothing else about him to respect.

With me close behind Kakuzu, we make our way through quiet side streets, moving around enough corners to make me glad that at least one of us took the time to memorize the path we're supposed to be taking. It's early enough in the morning for the light to still be dim and the streets to be empty, leaving our footsteps and the soft flutter of these stupid cloaks as the only sound. Our hope is that, having arrived so early in the morning, we'll catch the night shift of guards just before they're relieved by the morning crew. While they're too tired to make much trouble, in other words. We both want to be out of here as soon as possible.

The building we arrive at is one of those structures that is somehow intimidating, not in architecture but just in sheer size. It seems to loom over the rest of the nearby buildings, a deep gray leviathan swarmed with early shadows. We are diagonally across the street from the building, at the perfect vantage to see the scattered ninja around the structure. These are the first we've seen inside the village's gates, and we can safely assume that they haven't been informed of our arrival.

For a few minutes we remain still, shrouded in the shadow of early morning, watching the two ninja at the front of the building shoot the shit with each other. Then Kakuzu gives me a brief glance, and in that look there is nothing to read. I nod nonetheless, because that's what he expects, and we make our move.

Tired and with no clue that anyone was approaching, the two door guards are dead before we even reach the entrance, thanks to Kakuzu's threads. Following his lead, I step carefully over the door frame, and notice the slimmest of trip-wires hidden in the gloom. Maybe these people aren't as stupid as I first thought. Then again, traps aren't all that reliable when set against a reasonably observant person.

Following Kakuzu, we dart through the halls and into a dimly lit stairwell. There is no sound but the low buzz of fluorescent lighting; I assume our arrival still hasn't been noticed. There is a smell to the place, a musty mildew stench that makes my lip curl back in disgust. It's the stench of untended death, coming from the vents at the wall. We linger in the stairwell for only a moment, but it's long enough for my stomach to take a lazy turn. Then we're running up the stairs, Kakuzu taking them two and three at a time in his haste. I think he's got the movement of the guards timed in his head, but I can't be too sure until we get close enough to the fourth floor, where I finally hear their soft footsteps.

No hesitation, just eagerness, exists between us. His hand hits the door and it flies open, loudly hitting some poor fuck and then the wall. The door ricochets back toward closing, but we've already slunk through and into the open hallway. Scythe in hand; I'm ready for anyone Kakuzu doesn't catch.

Because he's so thorough and observant, I doubt I'll have to do much but keep up until after we've got the book or scroll or whatever it is we're after. Which is just fine with me; I like these moments when I can watch him work.

I know that we're nothing even approaching normal by the standards of conventional partners. We aren't kind to each other, and we don't know anything more about each other than we absolutely have to. There's too much animosity between us to be really close, but there is still a level of intimacy between us, one that seems to grow and trap us together more and more as time goes by. I'm not talking about sex (or not _just_ about sex), I'm talking about something that means a lot more to both of us.

People think intimacy comes only through closeness of the body, through physical contact or shared words.

Following a man, watching him literally come apart at the seams, close enough that his lust for destruction is something real and hot; close enough that the blood splashing from wounds he inflicts flies onto your cheek; feeling him move though you are not touching him- this is intimacy. I know more about Kakuzu through this proximity than I have known anyone else; I'm willing to say I know him better for it than any other living person.

Built to confuse, just as with the streets below, the hallways of this building are narrow, and most of the doors lining the walls are false. We don't try any of them, Kakuzu knows where he's going and I know I can follow him. After the first group of guards, there has not been another attack, and until someone finds their bodies, I doubt there will be.

It's at a narrow wooden door that we finally stop, and again I get a nasty impression just from the look of this thing. There's something wrong with the way it's been hung, so that though it's closed it looks like the door shouldn't fit the frame, and while that's not really something to be disturbed by, I am nonetheless. It doesn't help that some of the wood is so old it's crumbling off, or that the smell of corruption is even stronger here. Combined, all these factors give this door enough 'get the hell away' signals to indicate to me that it's exactly where we should be. Kakuzu doesn't touch the door, but instead sends a mass of threads at it, and seeing him do so gives me exactly enough time to raise my hands to shield my face before the whole nasty construct explodes.

"Thanks for the warning, jackass," I spit as he slips carefully through the hole, his broad shoulders still scrapping the raw plaster. Fucking assholes, putting exploding tags on a locked door.

As I step in after him, he raises a hand to signify that I should move ahead of him. I roll my eyes and skirt around him, quickly enough see what he needs me to do- the book we want is of course surrounded by such a web of traps that you could never snatch it without pulling one, and if you managed to pick your way past a few of them, you'd have wasted enough time that the guards would have caught up to you. That is, of course, if you have to worry about them killing you. Studying the traps for a moment, I give my weapon to Kakuzu and start to pick through them, avoiding the ones that would leave me injured enough to have trouble getting out of here and ignoring the senbon, shuriken, and kunai that the other traps send at me. Since I can take that sort of abuse with a smile on my face, my hand is on the book only about a minute later, and even quicker I'm handing it to Kakuzu and picking the needles out of my arms. I can already hear the thud of anxious, soon-to-be-dead ninja rushing toward the door, and can't help but smile a little as I secure my grip on the scythe. This is the fun part.

Just as we step out the door, the first crowd of guards turns the corner and sees us; and a crowd they are, not in any sort of visible formation and all bunched together in the narrow corridor. It's very easy to tell that they were in no way prepared for an actual threat to make it this far. Again, Kakuzu makes the first move, rushing forward and grabbing two of the men with his threads, smashing them together with enough force that they're almost instantly dead. Several kunai fly at him, which he easily knocks away with the threads, using still more the rip through their ranks.

All the attention is on him, giving me the perfect advantage; they stare at the threads coming out of his arms, or at their dead comrades, as I dart down the hall, and all the sudden I'm right there among them, scythe whistling through the air and connecting solidly with the face of some idiot, then into some other one's gut. Their blood splashes hotly around me, and I feel some of Kakuzu's threads narrowly passing me as they rip through the enemies pressing on either side of me.

Even as these assholes get a clue that they can't possibly win here, the reinforcements they no doubt called for before even heading our way are arriving, pressing them toward us as they try to run. And through them, Kakuzu and I are making some progress back down the hall; I hear several loud thuds, and once the unmistakable crumble of plaster as Kakuzu gets impatient and starts throwing people out of his way and into the walls. Still, our progress is slowing down- more and more of them are coming. When I glance over my shoulder, the relentless wave has finally made it to the point where some of them are actually hand-to-hand with Kakuzu, which is never pleasant, and when I look forward there's a sword half an inch from my eye. Instinctively I jerk my head back, and the blade slices down my cheek before I rip a kunai from my arm and jam it into the bitch's throat.

I hear a growl of aggravation from behind me, and know how pissed my partner is by now; we had both hoped that either the task-force would be small enough to be dispatched relatively quickly, or that the reinforcements would see the demolition of their comrades and run without us having to deal with them. Of course, while they're not as tenacious as some others we've fought, these bastards can't seem to get it through their heads that we're not going to die. Then I hear him yell for me to get down, and before I can think about it, one of his hands, disconnected from his body by the threads, is forcing me to the ground, right next to the guy who tried to shove a sword into my eye. Beyond the pressure of the hand, I can feel heat, and hear the screaming before the stench of burning flesh and cloth fills the room.

Much as I really do prefer not being burnt, I still manage to find it annoying to have had him push me out of the way like that. I know I would be much angrier if he hadn't warned me at all, but the way he at random decides to… whatever, to try and keep me safe; it's annoying. Like when he shoves me out of the way so some asshole's attack doesn't hit, or when he pushes in front of me to keep me from getting hit by some stupid weapon, when he knows damn well none of it's going to do me any real damage. Hell, when he knows he'll hurt me ten times as bad later in the day when he gets pissed off.

But, annoying as it is, it's another of those things about him that make me so certain that I have to kill him. And I suppose that, the way he does it, tells me that in some twisted way, we're feeling the same thing.

Sufficiently distracted, those not killed outright by his fire-jutsu are easily picked off as Kakuzu pulls me back to my feet and we return to running for the exit. In the confusion, we're quickly able to make it back outside, with only a little trouble finding our selves back in the maze-like streets. Close behind Kakuzu, I don't bother trying to remember what turns we're supposed to make, instead focusing on his back and keeping pace with his long stride. It's only as we're running toward the planned exit that I feel the sting of air on the raw flesh of my face, and feel the skin peeling back on itself. Better than a lost eye, but it stings like a motherfucker.

It seems their borders are even less attended now, which I assume means they directed most of their attention on the building we attacked. In any case, we slip out and make for the high grass. It'll be a few hours at least before they organize any sort of group to head after us, and since the only ones who got a clear look at us are either awaiting burial or a complete cremation, I doubt they'll really even know where to begin.

We keep running through the grass until it gives way to the course gravel and rocks on flat stone. The wind blowing off the sea, which is only a few miles away, carries with it a heavy scent of salt, and stings my face all the more. When Kakuzu slows to a stop I take the momentary pause to bring my hand to my face, cautiously exploring the wound. The edges are ripped, like the sword wasn't sharp enough and only cut through sheer pressure alone, and the flesh underneath is tender to the touch, moist and almost sticky. It's much longer than I thought at first, running from just beneath my right eye and over the cheek bone, ending just a hair above my jaw line. A long portion of skin is peeling back toward my ear, slowly opening the wound more to the air.

"Let me see it."

I instinctively clap my hand further over the wound, darting my eyes up to his. I hadn't even noticed he was watching me, I thought he was focused on getting the book hidden away. Of course, I was fairly absorbed with my examination of this nasty slice on my face. When I don't lower the hand immediately he narrows his eyes and steps closer, not bothering to make the demand a second time before gripping my wrist and pulling my hand away.

"Shit, fine, look, don't get all grabby."

He doesn't say anything to the snarky tone, only holds my wrist tightly and peers down at my face, eyes seeming to trace the curve of the wound. It's not bleeding any more, but blood is of course dried down that side of my face, obscuring it and making it harder to see the damage. After a long moment, he raises his other hand and lightly runs his finger over the edge. Then his eyes meet mine, laughing at me with his own at the glare I give him. "When we get to some water, you need to wash this out. I'll stitch it closed so it'll heal faster."

There is really no point in arguing, so I only roll my eyes as I pull away. "No shit, I'm going to wash it. It's fucking nasty; Jashin knows what kind of crap was on that asshole's sword _before_ it was in my face." He snorts, shaking his head and looking around the area. Clouds have already rolled in, and the air is frigid. I'm fairly sure that before long it'll be snowing. "And like hell are you going to put those fucking things in this, it'll heal _just fine_ on its own."

Giving me one of those slow looks that are so cold and openly menacing that they can only be funny anymore, he turns his attention back on me. "If I have to sew your mouth shut and nail your hands together again, I will. I really don't want to listen to you bitch for the next few days about how your face hurts unless I just hit you."

Completely ignoring the scowl I aim at him, he turns away and starts head for the cliffs that eventually give way to the ocean. Our plan was to stay at a tiny village somewhere near the water, still ridiculously close to Komukagure with the idea that it'll be overlooked or passed through quickly. Which means we'll probably spend the night in some seedy shit-hole place that no normal person would choose, or else in some abandoned fishing shack. If the fishing shack is available, I'm willing to bet that'll be Kakuzu's first choice.

As I trudge after him, the first light snow flakes begin to fall. It's too cold to even bother complaining, but I really hate this weather. True, it'll cover the tracks we've made so far and make it harder for us to be followed, but it's a pain in the ass to have to walk through. Hopefully though it will be enough to get the cheap bastard to pay for a room with heat.

We enter the town in silence. The buildings all look very old, as if no one's built anything new here since it was established. There are children playing in the newly fallen snow, but upon seeing us, they hush. Some of the older ones usher the younger kids back toward houses, and I can't say I blame them. What a pair we make just now, Kakuzu such an imposing figure even when he hasn't been in a fight, and me with half my face peeling back.

Again I find myself simply following Kakuzu; if I was told where exactly we'd go after collecting the book, I don't remember it. I just know that Kakuzu somehow always seems to know exactly where he's going. Without the children playing, the streets seem very quiet. It's a little after noon now, but I see no people traveling through the town from home or a job after lunch. I suppose in a fishing community they take their food out on the water with them. The few kids left outside are all older, nearing or in their teens, and they stare boldly at us as we pass, expressions stiff and challenging. Rather than get Kakuzu all pissy by giving them a reason to stare, I bring my hand back up to my face and lower my head. If I'm a good boy, maybe we can get somewhere warm soon.

The building we enter is just as old as the rest, constructed of wood that has turned black from exposure to the wet for so long. But stepping inside is heavenly - it's perfectly heated, as if the weather outside isn't leaning toward a blizzard. Kakuzu doesn't pause to enjoy this change, but I do, letting him head to the desk behind which an old woman is reading a book. She's either deaf or used to people entering at random hours; she doesn't look up until Kakuzu addresses her. He starts to speak in his low, 'I'm-dealing-with-people-who-are-going-to-take-my-money' voice, and she stares up at him until he gestures toward me. Her wrinkled face doesn't hide any of her shock, and I can only smile.

Kakuzu assures her that I'm fine, but need a room to clean up and rest for a while. That we would prefer to be bothered as little as possible, and no, the room doesn't have to be anything special, as long as it has a bed and access to a washroom. She nods at his words, all the time glancing at my face. In truth, by now some of the healing has started, but the dried blood probably doesn't do anything to show that. When Kakuzu suggests a price for a room, she looks at him, baffled, and tells him she can offer us a spare room for one night for even less, if we don't mind sharing a bed. I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling her how little we mind, only just managing not to laugh as she slips out from behind the desk and starts leading us down the hall.

I nod to her when she holds open the door to the room, and head straight for the (of course miniscule) bathroom. Kakuzu declines her offer of bandages, and follows me in, letting the door shut as he moves to sit on the bed. I let the water run hot on my hands for a few minutes before starting to wash my face, doing my best not to make the tear any worse as I scrub all the blood away. When I'm done, it's leaking slightly again and stings even worse, but it's clean and obviously not infected or poisoned.

Sitting on the bed, waiting, Kakuzu watches me through the open door. Since Leader made a point of telling him not to, we haven't gone after a single bounty since we left the base last time, so there is no need for him to try counting his cash. So instead he just watches me, and once I've finished, gestures me to join him.

Only because I'm pretty sure this nice warm room is supposed to be a bribe, I only make a slight face as I sit beside him, turning the wound toward him. This is one of those Kakuzu-kindnesses that I don't quite get… he really doesn't have to do this, but he's intent upon having it done, and he knows I don't _need_ him to do it. But we both know the wounds will heal cleaner and faster if he does, and so there goes that argument.

Getting stitches from him is one of the strangest experiences I've ever dealt with. He tilts his hand back, letting a single thread loose, and it moves to the start of the tear. For a moment it just brushes against it, almost a caress, and then it's inside the skin, sharp enough that it might as well be a needle, weaving through the flesh and reconnecting the two halves. It's painful, and I can feel little rivulets of blood trickling down my face. In a few hours, or maybe in the morning, depending on how quickly it heals, Kakuzu will bring his arm back to my face and the thread, still a living part of him, will pull slowly back out of my skin, and return to him. Though it feels no different than stitching from regular medical thread, it's undeniably strange.

When he's finished, he stays close for a moment, as if examining his work. Before I can pull away or ask him what he thinks he's doing, he's lowers his hand to my face, fingers just lightly resting on the skin as his thumb carefully brushes away the blood his stitching caused. It's another of his oddly delicate motions, a display of self control that is very strange. Just as suddenly he pulls away, standing and shrugging his cloak off. There are several large tears in it, and when he sits again, it's with his back to me and the cloak in his lap, already patching it up.

The whole moment leaves me with an odd feeling in my stomach. It's another one of those things- I know that, most people in a situation like this, getting so much pleasure and enjoyment from another person, even if it's confusing and random, would want it to last. They would want it to go on and grow and maybe get better or maybe burn itself out like a fever.

I can't stand that idea. I don't want forever; I want a perfect moment, and I want to see him in that perfect state of grace as his life leaves him. Then, I could die happily. Forever is a curse, a voracious animal that takes and takes, weakening and demolishing things as it goes.

That's why I'm going to kill Kakuzu, why I'll stay by him even when he's being a stupid greedy jackass. Because forever wouldn't make our relationship better, it would make it brittle and weak and easily taken for granted. If I could walk away, I would… but through some stupid twist, I'm stuck with him, and there is nothing I can do. It's Jashin's will, or else we would have been separated by now, long before any of these ridiculously confusing feelings could ever exist.

For Kakuzu and I, who could both live for so long, there is no forever. It's better that way.


	9. Interlude Three: An Addictive Quality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people are addictive.

Liking and loving are two completely different things, or so I have always thought.

The trouble with them is that they're so closely linked to each other, making them difficult to distinguish. My mother used to say something that until recently never held much meaning to me- after all, I haven't needed to think very deeply about things like the difference between 'liking' and 'loving' until recently.

What she would say was "I love your father, but I really don't like him that well." As a child this meant nothing to me; it was another of the things adults said when they were sad or angry - of course my mother liked my father, or else they wouldn't have married. But considering that she always said this in a wistful tone, generally with her hand pressed to this bruise or that, it finally occurred to me after my father was dead and I was long unwelcome in Takigakure that maybe she meant exactly what she said.

Lately, I think I understand those words much more than I would really like too.

This sensation, Hidan's smaller, warmer body pressed terribly close, is something I love. His blood slick on my hands, in my mouth, pooled around us; I love this as well. I love his hair, his skin, his lithe limbs; I love his breath coming in short gasps and low hisses and I love his nails in my arms. In moments like this, there's a sort of control I love too; it's easy for me to dominate his smaller body, and he wants me to.

We don't argue, we aren't angry, but all at once we're doing what comes natural to us both, and somewhere in the midst of his pain and my blood-lust, we strike a balance so perfectly between our needs that we are truly together.

It's the way he fights me over everything else, how he insists on arguing over each little nuance of the day, that I don't like. The way he persists in doing things _his_ way, even when a simpler alternative is offered annoys me to no end. I dislike his petty confrontational attitude about his religion and his constant complaints about anything and everything that he comes across. I hate his back-talking and his manipulative nature, his constant need to waste time with pointless rituals and his foul mouthed commentary when I refuse to give him what he wants.

Nothing about him has really changed since we met; he's still a cocky, annoying zealot with no sense of respect and a lot of contemptible habits.

But for all these faults, do I hate _Hidan_ , the gorgeous immortal whose body is as much mine as it is his? Do I hate the man I could easily refer to as my lover?

I do not.

There are things about him that I truly despise, and there are still moments when he manages to make me so angry that I would kill him in an instant if I could. I've done his body more physical damage than is believable... but I cannot say I hate _him_ any more.

For each moment he pushes me into a rage, there is another moment of such terrible pleasure with him, when he does something for me that no other person has ever been able to do. Everything between us is not a fight, no matter how he might try to make it, and there are even moments between us, during the day and without us ever touching, that are undeniably _nice_.

So, what is so very troubling about this is that, if I do not hate him, and if my hatred for those things he does that so annoy me has been softened, then I must ask myself what is it that binds me to him.

Of course, this is not a time for thought; my momentary hesitation is easily noticed, and his eyes narrow in the gloomy room, his fingernails digging into the back of my neck as he pulls up against me, and then our lips meet, locked together fiercely. Though there is no anger in this between us, there is no gentleness either; it's almost like another sort of fighting.

I know how much he hates my thoughts to be on anything other than him in moments like this, and that the brief pause during which I had leaned back and simply stared at his face has him irked. That my delay was consumed with thoughts of him he likely has no clue, but I understand the urgency of his body against mine and am somehow even excited by this demand that my attention be for him, and for now.

Knowing what he likes and loving to give it to him, I let my arms wrap around his middle, holding him as my threads begin to rip into his back, tearing through the skin. He arches his spine, trying to move closer to me as he bares his perfect teeth in a snarl of pain. I've said before how attractive he is to me, so I won't belabor that point.

I'll just note that somehow he manages to be more attractive in moments like this than he is any other time. The low hiss of pain that escapes his lips is delicious to me, as his eyes roll in pleasure and he murmurs something too softly for me to hear.

I slide my hands higher, caressing his neck for a moment before sitting up, hands wrapped around his wrists before he loses balance. Forcing him against the cold headboard, hard enough that it actually cracks against the rough wall, I pull his arms over his head, and when I release them they're sewn together and tied to the headboard. Blood rolls down his arms from the new holes in his hands, and though he knows it will do him no good, he flexes against the stitching holding his palms together over his head.

He shivers against me as I lean forward and run my tongue over the trail of blood, and I know that the tremor has nothing to do with the biting cold of the room.

Nothing about him is contemptible now, nothing is irritating or bothersome. Like this, he is perfect to me. I even enjoy the sound of his cursing.

And he _does_ curse, his legs (which had previously been straddling my hips) locking around my back as I lower my mouth to his neck and ghost my teeth over the sensitive flesh. He curses me, the pain, and from his lips the words are meant as encouragement and as endearments. I know this because he doesn't pull away or tell me to stop, he defies the logic his mind must scream at him and comes closer, growling if I pause or move too far from him. More than that, I know what he means because if it was anything less we wouldn't still be doing this- the first time would have been enough, but it seems we can't _ever_ get enough.

While my teeth worry his neck, first bruising and then bloodying the skin, my fingers map his stomach, finding the deepest of the cuts I made earlier. His skin, so desperately trying to undo the damage I've done, has already scabbed over and begun knitting together. Easily I break through it again, letting my cold hand slip into the heat of his soft flesh.

 _This_ is what I love about him. His eagerness, his lack of hesitation- when my hands aren't just _on_ his body, but _inside it_ , and his bleeding only makes him want me more; when he's screaming in an agony that between us means perfection, and he's right _there_ on the cusp of death he'll never meet. This is all we could ever want, a state of highest bliss for us both; but somehow it's never enough, and though we always end up fighting and hating each other later, we'll end up together this way more often than it seems possible.

It is not like the fevered dreams my obsessed mind fed me when I first started wanting him. There is a level of closeness, of something almost like bonding that my rambling dreams could never have possessed. I bring him to the brink of death, to that point that's more intimate than simple sex would ever allow, and somehow he takes me to the same height.

We come crashing down together, both bloody and hot despite the freezing temperature outside, and he pulls against the threads holding him to the bed, hard against me as my hands leave his body. As I retract those tendrils, feeling them snake back through my wrists as my bloodied fingers slip into his hair, his hands strain toward me; once freed, they lock behind my neck, and our mouths crash together again. It's brief, but slow and hot, and when he pulls away his breath comes heavily. "Do it now, fuck the stitches Kuzu, just do it."

Despite the fact that in everything else he tries to fight me, to be in charge, he is almost completely submissive during sex; giving himself to me but still demanding that he get what he wants. I give it to him, always- I can't deny him. When he asks that way, which for him is almost pleading, I could never imagine saying no, even if for some reason I wanted to.

He screams when I thrust into him, a different scream than before. While I'm certain pain plays some part in it, it's not the sound of agony from before, it's somehow sweeter, demanding. His teeth clench around a second scream, turning it into a moan, and he holds tight to my shoulders, moving with me.

Tangled together afterward, before we decide to get up and clean off, he presses his face against my neck and dozes with his fingers in my hair. For him there seems to be no complications, though I can tell just by his determination to remain close for so long that he feels at least some of this… _affection_. Perhaps for him it's easier. I have felt little more than annoyance and anger toward most people since I was ostracized from my village, and that was long ago. The only person I remember ever actually feeling attached to was my mother. Feeling this lingering fondness for someone, feeling anything towards someone; it's strange and somewhat unsettling.

Especially considering who's receiving these feelings.


	10. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things always change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is meant to take place a long time after the first, which I hope is clear in the narrative.

Things between Hidan and me changed without seeming to.

Our priorities, our personalities; these are all that seemed resistant to the change. He prayed (obsessively) while I was occupied keeping track of our finances; he was still whiny and rude and I remained cold and often silent. We lived cheaply, despite his protests, taking the missions no one else could touch and often staying far away from base and communication with the rest of Akatsuki.

Perhaps that made it easier for the change, but I think it would have come anyway. Things were changing for Akatsuki as well, and not much of _that_ change is good. Sasori's death was the worst of it, shaking our Leader badly - it was not a sacrifice we were prepared for. We were all ordered to return to Rain Country and remained there for several months with no missions, not allowed to leave the borders. Hidan made the conjecture that this quarantine, combined with Sasori's death, has driven out what little of Deidara's sanity existed in the first place; and it seemed true - the young blond has changed, becoming withdrawn and careless.

It should be much harder to believe that he was so attached to the puppet-master, as much as the pair of them argued. But of course, I've learned from experience that constant bickering might have nothing to do with emotional ties.

After months of being confined to the small country, many sleepless nights punctuated by muffled explosions or hopeless laughter from the direction of wherever Deidara was staying, we began being assigned quick missions. Always it was part of the command that we return to the base after it was completed, and most assignments were simply reestablishing old contacts in nearby countries, or disposing of useless ones. Most of us became restless, but Leader remained cautious.

Itachi was the first balk at the confinement, in his silent apathetic way. He disappeared one night, leaving Kisame to grin and apologize and follow after the next morning. Not long after, Deidara withdrew completely, only lashing out at his partner when the idiocy became unbearable; it was odd for things to be so perfectly silent. Hidan, by far more social than I, tried to be pleasant to the blonde, but only got stony-faced grunts in reply, sounds that seemed to cause Tobi to materialize from nothing, and soon Hidan avoided the bomber all together.

Then Konan came to Hidan and me, calm as ever, and told us we were to take on the next step of the mission for the three-tailed bijou. The grin on Hidan's face was unmatched, as we were told we would be permitted to return to our normal habit of wandering without reporting back to base.

We were gone within an hour of Konan's brief speech, slipping out of the country under the cover of a storm. Even this was not enough to make Hidan surly; he was too ecstatic to be free of the Rain Country. When I suggested camping out in the grass off the road (once out of Rain, the storm had withered into nothing) he agreed with minimal whining.

After years of his company, he became easy enough to read. I could foresee the shift in his moods early enough to prepare myself for the worst of it, making it easier to weather whatever emotional storm he brewed. He in turn learned to read me, shutting up without my needing to yell, or sitting close and sharing our warmth when I was in a mood for intimacy.

We knew each other so well, our superficial selves and our inner selves; we worked together in synchronized harmony, playing off each other and balancing our shortcomings with our strengths. When we fought, against each other or together against an enemy, the motions were almost like a dance, our attacks complimenting each other, every action in accord. Many of the fights we had against each other struck me as almost flirtatious, especially on his part; they were exciting and arousing and nearly always ended with one of us pinned by the other.

Of course, this change came slowly, in strange, jagged increments. I can remember a time when it would not have been inaccurate to say we hated each other - passionately, actively despised one another. But active hate has an odd habit of changing… sometimes I wonder when blood lust became a more carnal hunger, when I stopped trying to think of ways to kill him and started thinking of ways to get him in my bed. And I think of his face that first time, when I lost control and mauled him; that expression of pure bliss, a hunger in him having been satiated, though he would have continued to glut if I hadn't stopped. Did he want things to be this way before I did, or was I just a convenient masturbatory tool?

There were still times when we annoyed each other, when we found ourselves completely at odds. This was natural enough for anyone forced into close company for so long. In the long run, I believe our moments of stress and disgust with one another were fair trade for the moments of pleasant warmth.

I've never considered myself a romantic, and I have to admit that it is strange to try openly contemplating these things; the emotional ties that bind Hidan and me. However, they are complicated enough to distract me from the final agony, and I find it much more pleasant to think of the zealot than of my pending death. Knowing that I won't survive to walk out of this clearing is disappointing, and I don't like the idea of dying disappointed.

Hidan is still a stranger to me in many ways, which now seems oddly unfair. We never bothered to learn the little details about each other, taking for granted that we had the time to figure each other out. I know he will take coffee in the morning if it's available and is generally more pleasant throughout the day if he gets it. But I don't know how he takes it, except that he likes sweet things so I assume he uses too much sugar. He doesn't like open bodies of water, but where does the phobia come from? I know that old man was from the cult of Jashin, like Hidan, but were they related? Was Hidan born into his faith, or did he convert sometime in his life?

I sometimes used to wonder to myself, when we were lying together and I had my fingers in his hair, if it was naturally white or if it was part of his immortality. His eyes too, which are too sharp to be colored from albinism; were they always some shade of violet, or did they change when he was 'blessed'? Or is he as full of shit about being blessed with immortality by his insane god as he is about anything else having to do with religion? I suppose it's possible that his durability could come from a strange bloodline or an arcane jutsu.

I wonder if it would satisfy him that my thoughts are completely about him now. As far as my attention went, he was just as much a miser as I was with money. I was never supposed to think of anything but him, whether we were getting along or fighting - he made that quite clear with his attention-seeking antics.

The very fact that I can think with some regret of the part of him that I do not know is proof of the changes he has forced in my life.

That I think of him with anything more than anger, contempt, or at best lust is confirmation that he has changed me. And it is the things about him that I don't know that leave me wondering if I have changed him as well; I cannot know, because despite how close we became, we learned very little about each other. Did we take for granted our time together, wasting the years because we assumed neither of us could fall victim to mortality, or was it simple apathy?

It sounds so cheap - and generally, I am exceptionally cheap - to say that we didn't really think to pay attention to one another. To assume that we had the time to come to terms with what we were to each other, to believe that our safeguards against death would hold indefinitely makes both of us sound naïve and childish. And yet, I believe it is the truth of things. We simply never expected to be restrained by time.

When I think of him, my first thoughts are of the things he does that make me angry. It is almost purposeful on my part, because if all I thought of in relation to him were things that made me feel good, positive, then the moments when he annoyed me would be all the more potent. It is hard enough to acknowledge how deeply his presence effects me without allowing him to sway me just because of my own self-delusion.

Yet every thought of annoyance or anger is attached to one of pleasure or happiness. Because despite how often we fought, we did make each other happy, more often than one would think.

I always hated his need to pray, in the morning, before we slept, and after every single battle we were in. It is one of the keystones of his personality, that need to pray, and it frustrates me to no end. I never could fathom putting so much energy into a task that meant nothing in the material world. Even if there really are gods, would one of them really chose to listen to one mortal banter? It seemed like such a waste of time and energy, and yet he clung blindly to it.

More than once I heard him praying for me, late in the evening when he thought I had gone to sleep or in the morning when I was in the shower and shouldn't have heard. He prayed for his god's understanding in my lack of faith, in my sacrilegious treatment of his bible, my disrespect; he prayed for my anger to be soothed and for my calmness, for our relationship to be lucky. He always prayed that we would 'reach an understanding', though precisely what he meant by that I have no idea. Once, when I was angry and had stormed off, I returned the next morning and heard him praying that I would come back.

He tempered my wrath with spiteful and sometimes playful encouragement, making my outbursts into a game. There were moments when I scared him, but often even when he was angry he laughed off my threats and made light of the wounds I inflicted on him. I could have pulled him to pieces and he would have found a way to taunt me about my method. It made me hate him in the moment and love him better later.

That, I think, was one reason we danced around each other, changing without acknowledging it to ourselves and ignoring the little things about each other that made us human. We did not want to admit how deep we had gotten. We didn't want to hear ourselves use that phrase - love. No shinobi should be in love, not if he wants to stay alive for very long. Love makes you stupid, especially when you acknowledge it.

We were a poor match, as lovers go. We were too set in our own ways and too stubborn to ever think of compromising. Even now I feel that to say we love each other is not precisely accurate. To invoke the word love is to say we would have given something up to keep our bond; it is to say we have been tried and that we passed the trial. But our relationship was never really tested; we just changed to accept each other's constant presence. As a result our bond never had to be tested; it simply evolved as we did.

But what other emotion could spark our protectiveness, or could inspire the trust and passion we harbor for each other? What else besides love could make me chase after him when he sulked off after a fight? What else would make him come back and give me one of his half-assed apologies? What other than love could have forced us to change as we have?

So we loved each other. We despised each other as often as we realized that we needed each other, and we fought without end, but we loved each other truly enough.

Akatsuki is a criminal organization; we all have committed acts of such horror that we are spoken of with awe and fear in our villages. Shinobi recognize us by our cloaks and often by our faces, which they have memorized from posters and bingo books and stories told to frighten children. We are the most feared and well recognized organization in the world. But evil is what we do, not what we are. Despite our attempts to block out that which makes us human, none of us are exempt from emotion or conscience. What separates us from other shinobi are our manners of deflection; most shinobi cannot make themselves channel the energy of their emotions or morals into something other than a momentary outburst. Some go insane trying to disguise their emotions.

Members of Akatsuki, however, channel it into some focus or another. Deidara and Sasori had art, and each other; Itachi had his sickening obsession with his brother; Pein was becoming a god and Konan had Pein. Everyone had _something_ that kept them sane and focused, and for Hidan and I, that somehow became each other. There were other things - religion, money, blood - that helped us, but our bond was a force of its own caliber. Not just the good, but also the bad things that kept us together- our hate kept us sane just as well as anything.

There was a time when we could barely stand being in a room together for half an hour, and I can't help but wonder if we wouldn't be better off if things had remained that way. There is a seductive security to having a partner you have any sort of bond with; you think, I can't die here, because later I will be with whomever, and we'll be fine. Nor do you think of real harm befalling your partner, because of course, later you will be together. You are invincible because you are together. Once you begin thinking of yourself as belonging to an 'us', you cloak yourself in delusions.

There can be no upside to dying; there is no glory in it, no sense of accomplishment. My road has been long and full of turns and forks. Too many years have collected behind me with too many issues for my conscience to be an account worth trying to settle. The least I can say is that my regrets are minimal and reflect things that would likely not have changed were I to survive.

There is one thing, one small thing that I do truly regret, though I doubt that I would be able to change it even if I had the opportunity. Habits shape our personalities, after all. I regret that the last words between us were idle discussion of the fight ahead. I regret that the last words I will ever have heard from Hidan's lips are 'Let's do the usual!', in irritating enthusiasm for the coming bloodshed. I regret that I said _nothing_ to him before we split up that wasn't battle communication.

Despite what some people believe, time is a one way street. No amount of regret or love or determination can grant you access to some amazing store of energy, allowing you to defy death and fix that which you have done wrong. Once you reach the point when you start wishing for a ridiculous thing like that, you're probably too far gone already.

If I had it all to do over again, I believe I would let my life play out just as it has. For every injustice I suffered, I was later rewarded; for every moment of agony, a period of calm and good health. My life was perhaps too long, but it was at least well balanced, and I can look at it and accept what I see.

Is it death that makes everything around me seem so beautifully clear, so slow and wonderfully detailed? I can't move; even blinking causes pain that sinks from my eyes to my wounds to pound out yet more blood. And yet everything in front of me is in perfect clarity: above me I can see sunlight straining through the leaves; from my peripheral I catch a slow crimson droplet trailing languidly down a blade of grass. It seems odd to acknowledge that the droplet is my _life_ splattered all around me, but odder still is the thought of sunlight. How can there be sunlight in the sky still, when I've been dying for hours at least?

Once Hidan told me that death was beautiful. I thought he was being morbid, and that he was referring to the death we created, not our own deaths. Laying here now, I understand better what he meant. It is painful, and I would easily trade what I can see to know that tomorrow I would still be alive, but yes, there is a stunning splendor in the world as seen through dying eyes.

The sounds I hear are muddled, but when the Copy-cat Ninja appears in my vision, I understand him well enough. Leaf ninja are a weak bunch, destined to skewer themselves on their own self-righteous spears; they are the dreamers who believe a world that rests in the hands of shinobi can someday know peace. Yet they make good foot soldiers because they don't question the need to kill for peace - Kakashi doesn't surprise me by gloating, and the sight of his only original move is as surprisingly welcome as it is beautiful.

Hidan hated when I would knock him out of the way of some enemy's attack, or protect him from traps. He despised that I would keep safe something that I would only injure later; it was a sort of hypocrisy that he simply could not tolerate. I always registered this, and yet could never help myself. So I am not surprised when, as I feel the air heat and snap with the electricity leaping from Kakashi's fist, my mind turns sadly to one further regret, one that I would change if I could.

No one will protect you now, Hidan. If you survive, it will be undoubtedly in some battle—ruined state, and I will not be there to stitch you whole again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a bit more of a wait for the next chapters, but they should be up soon, Constant Reader.


	11. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sacrifice, made in love or hate, is always an emotional ordeal.

Deep in the earth, blind and swallowed wholly in the dark, I am lost from Jashin’s sight – lost from any sight. I am a lost thing, wretched and forgotten, and I can do nothing here but pray.

In some way, my prayers must be heard. I can feel my body slowly trying to inch back together, clumsily knitting back into form even as small stones and clumps of dirt clutter the way. These remain unpleasantly embedded beneath my skin, in my joints, and twined into my musculature. If I ever get out of this hellish hole, it’ll take forever for me to really fix my body.

Where Kakuzu is or in what shape, I can’t imagine. It’s not like him to take so damn long coming to get me, even if he’s pissed off about me getting myself into a big mess. And even I can admit, this is a _huge_ mess. Letting myself get dismembered and buried isn’t exactly the action of a good shinobi.

We weren’t expecting this kind of resistance. Not from Leaf nin, at least.

It seems impossible to think they could really be holding Kakuzu up. Or worse… no, impossible. The bastard has five working hearts, too much back up for even these happy assholes to really get the better of him. It’s unworthy to really think he could fall to them.

_But then why hasn’t he come?_

There is an insidious little voice in my head that hints at the worst possible things. Once upon it was this voice that whispered to me when I would think of Kakuzu in light other than hateful, the voice that whispered that I wanted to acquiesce to his deal just as much as he wanted me to. This voice is a sickness, a part of myself that I would cut out and leave dead if I could, but such is impossible for me; I always come back together, no matter what I do.

When I was younger, I thought this was a blessing. I thought Jashin Himself had reached down with His holy hand and blessed me, that I was destined for something better, greater than the rest of my kin. I was meant for something, and that was always very important to that younger me.

But as I grew older, I came to think of myself as a connoisseur of death – of dealing it and inviting it. Yet as many as I killed, their deaths never touched me, never marked me. I felt rejected, rather than blessed, and it was ever harder to hold in my heart the idea that this was the Will of my god.  But what mortal – or, yes, immortal – can claim to truly know the Will of God? I was as trapped in life as others were trapped in dying, and who was I to presume to know better than what was given to me? I tried arrogance, I tried humility; each fit about as well as the other.

It wasn’t until I was paired with Kakuzu that I started to feel that wonderful sense of purpose fill me again. At first I couldn’t understand it; heathen that he was, what purpose could he have in my life? It was a long time before I was humble enough again to hear that voice in my heart assuring me that my life and his were meant to meet.

And I’m not afraid to admit, it was even longer before I would listen to that voice. I was arrogant, and I suffered for it. Jashin may not reward complacent humility the way the Christian god supposedly does, but neither does he suffer foolish men thinking to know his heart the way he must know theirs.

I was meant to survive so that I might meet Kakuzu. We were meant to love one another, for what else could Jashin have had in mind when we fit together so perfectly? It was as if we’d been cast from matching molds, uniquely shaped and made only to match one another. As far as any men can be, we were perfect for each other.

How long did we both know that we were in love? For I know he must have felt it too, cozy shithead that he is. I know we came to a sort of unspoken understanding, a middle ground where both our needs were met and our mutual irritation with one another was relatively nulled. We came to work well together, and thought there was much between us we never decided to say, I feel safe in admitting now that we both understood we were in love.

Except love is such a shitty, flowery limiting way to explain what we had. We were beyond _romance_ … so far beyond it we barely ever really even flirted, certainly never went out on dates or showered one another in gifts. There was no hint of the token signs of passion between us, but passion there was.

Neither of us ever wanted to admit it, the little ways things changed between us, the concessions each of us made for the other in this ugly evolution of us.

It hurts to think about being trapped in this godless pit without ever saying it to him – that I love him. I don’t care that he’ll likely just tell me to shut up, that he would never say the words back; I _know_ he loves me, and that’s fine. But I have been so cold towards him. Trying to make it hurt less when I finally did what Jashin put me on this earth to do.

Because that’s what it was all about. I was made to love him and then kill him, to sacrifice him in the name of my Lord and purify his soul; in so doing his soul would be pure and he’d go to heaven. So, finally, would I. I can see it so clearly now, that which was once only a half-decided dream now a perfect certainty.  

Kinda hard to do that when I’m trapped god-knows how fucking deep in this pit, buried alive and in pieces, ever so slowly pulling myself back together.

It’s damn hard to tell how much time passes in perfect dark. Kakuzu had a knack for it, he told me once that it was part of his training, seeming surprised in that way some people are when they find out some shitty thing that happened to them growing up wasn’t par for the course for the rest of the world. He had some shit drill him somehow, and he could keep time down to the minute perfectly in his head.

Me, I was never that good.

Still I know it’s been a long time, and not just because I’m bored, haha, out of my head. Part of it is the advancement of my limbs, how I’ve nearly managed to become whole again. If you can call this whole, so many bones shattered and soil and rocks trapped inside me. I feel vast and stretched out, agonized in a way that is beyond even my ability to appreciate.

Kakuzu must be coming. He can’t really be dead.

I make it into a kind of mantra, and that’s what I’m thinking when light ekes its way down to me. My heart, which had been beating in a sickeningly weak, shallow way, picks up a steadier thread, and my eyes dazzle in the sudden brilliance as someone digs through the rubble to where I lay.

“God, it took you long enough, ‘Kuzu, what th’ fuck were you –“ I start in, only to be cut off by a harsh hiss, the sort that demands compliant silence. It came from far above me, and it was only then that I finally picked up on the chakra signatures of the bodies above me.

Bodies, not just one, but three. Two were laboring to get me out of the grave I’d been abandoned in, one was keeping watch. I didn’t know the first two, but the third was far too familiar.

“Keep your mouth shut, boy. If you ever want out of that pit, for your life, _hush_ ,” Yari says.

There’s something about that voice that I just can’t ignore, and it’s damnably hard to disobey, even after all these years. I want to ask about a million questions, but I bite my tongue – literally, after a few more minutes of the silent excavation – and decide to hold them for after I’m out of the ground. Why it’s Yari digging me out of this damn hole being item number one.

I don’t get a chance to ask anything, barely able to keep from screaming when my body is finally disturbed. Nothing has healed properly, a point I’ve belabored already, and when the two men that had been doing all the digging first try to lift me, I can’t help crying out, agony ripping through my broken body like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Yari shushes me again, furtive and furious, and I swallow the screams that want to tear out of me as I am slowly, carefully brought up to the surface.

“Jashin bless our hands, boy, we’re going to get you back together,” the old bastard growls, kneeling heavily beside me. “We’ll have to be quick. The deer already know your tomb has been disturbed.”

And, saying no more, the three of them pull out knives and begin carving me up.

It’s not a pretty experience; it’s excruciating and seemingly eternal; sharp blades tearing me open and scraping out the filth that my body had sealed inside itself. They _are_ fast though, and good at what they do. None of us speak or even breathe loudly, though at times my breath hitches and hisses. At one point it stops entirely, my lungs opened up and carefully cleaned. They work on me as if I am a machine, something complex and marred up inside that they can break down and muck out to put back in working order.

When they have me cleaned up to their satisfaction, they begin placing me together, letting my natural ability to heal even dismembering wounds take its course.  I may not be able to measure time in my head down to the minute like Kakuzu always did, but I can tell by the movement of the stars that we’ve been here at the edge of what I can’t stop thinking of as my grave for well over an hour.

They’re getting flighty, and seem eager to move as soon as I climbed shakily to my feet.  Disoriented and exhausted, I allow myself to be lead away by Yari and one of the nameless others while the third member of my rescuing team starts shoving ruble with surprising care back into my grave. I assume he’s trying to make it appear as if no one had disturbed it.

Yari, the other silent stranger, and I all head silently into the woods, and it’s a long time before I realize I’m still holding my silence. When I stop running, the other two stop as well. Whatever danger it was that they were worried about, we seem to have outrun it, and Yari nods his permission for me to talk.

“Where’s my partner,” I demand. “Why the hell did you come get me out of there and not him?”

For a moment Yari just stares at me, and in that moment he looks like the old, tired man he must be. I remember him all too well in my hotel room, so long ago, after Kakuzu abandoned me because of him; he looked exactly the same then, so tired, so worn. I wonder if he’ll ever just die.

But I’m not interested in pitying him, and I will not be denied, not after laying around waiting in that hole for so fucking long. Someone is going to answer me. I’m owed at the very least that much.

“Well?” I demand, glaring at the old man. “Don’t just fucking stare at me, tell me.”

Clearing his throat, Yari at least has the good grace not to look away from me when he delivers his answer. I can respect him for that much, even if I can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. “He’s dead, Hidan,” is what he says. “The Leaf Nin took his body back to their village. They plan to study his –”

I don’t hear much more after that, it’s all static; lies lies lies, I can’t think of why Yari would lie about this except to try cozening me away, but I refuse to believe…

And even if he _is_ captured by the Leaf Nin, that means he needs me. I need to find him, get him out of there so we can get somewhere safe together and regroup, figure things out.

I’m about to take off running, back toward the Leaf village, when my wrist is caught.

Yari looks sad, sadder than any human I’ve ever met. Why bother, old man, I can see right through your damn lies. I yank my hand out of his and back away several steps, surprised to find myself shaking where I stand. It has to be a lie, doesn’t it? Kakuzu wouldn’t leave me… but that look on Yari’s face held no kind of pleasure, no kind of guile. “You’re naked, son. At least get dressed and have a listen before you run yourself back to death?”

“I didn’t _die_ ,” I spit back, but step back closer to the nameless stranger who procures a set of plain black clothes for me. A linen shirt and light trousers to match, both dyed a mottled black to help blend into shadow. The shirt even has a cowl to pull over my mouth. I remember these clothes; these are what I trained in as a youth.

Neither watch me as I dress, both low key on the lookout for anyone following our trail. They’re not real shinobi, but they know the premise of stealth, of battle. Yugakure forgot the ways of war too long ago, but some of us remember how to fight. Again, I can respect them for this.

When I’m dressed, the stranger leaps away and disappears, presumably up our back trail to create a diversion should we have been followed. Yari stays with me. “You didn’t die, that’s true. But I beg you, Hidan, leave this place. Won’t you come do the work of god with us?”

“God has work for me here.”

He sighs and shakes his head, but hands over a hefty-looking bag. By its weight, I successfully assume it to be filled with weapons. When I open it, I find the majority are my preferred pikes, and spare him a grateful look.

“Vengeance is not the work of our god, Hidan,” he says, soft and exhausted. “I thought you knew that.”

I only shake my head. He doesn’t understand – he doesn’t know Kakuzu like I do, doesn’t understand that he _can’t_ be dead. I’m not looking for vengeance, just to save my partner. “I’ll see you later, Yari.”

“Oh, I doubt that, son,” he says, heading off in the direction we’d initially come running. Only now he doesn’t bother running, he only walks, and once again it strikes me how very old he really is. “I doubt that very much.”

Well, what the fuck does he know? Maybe he plans on being dead soon, Jashin knows he deserves it.

I don’t see either of the two strangers on my run back toward Konohagakure, and that does me just fine. I really don’t need anyone else trying to get me to give up on what I know I need to see done.

Once I said that Kakuzu was, while quite efficient, not a terribly talented ninja. He killed to maintain stealth, rather than actually being stealthy. Alone now, I realize just how much I had come to rely on that, how secure I had gotten in his presence. I move quickly through the streets, hunting toward the city’s center.

Someone, some unlucky shinobi, will undoubtedly be stationed at some important station, and I will get the information I need from them.

Though it feels like I’ve been sneaking around forever, I eventually find the perfect mark; relatively isolated, guarding the morgue of all places. I wish desperately for a moment, foolish and impractical, that I had Kakuzu’s jutsu, and could simply snare the man in a web of threads.

Instead, I grab him by hand, silencing him with a blow to the throat and then jam on of my pikes through his side, right into his kidney. “Where is Kakuzu,” I demand, and then twist the pike when he looks at me with cow-eyed confusion. Good as I am with torture, I’ve never been terribly talented at employing it for the acquisition of information. “The Waterfall Nin with the stitches. Creepy eyes. _Where_?”

 _That_ seems to work, recognition dawning, but he simply shakes his head, still unable to speak. I jam the pike in further, feeling his blood running hotly on my hand. “Tell me and I’ll let you live.”

Leaf Nin are so soft. Without my cloak and headband, there’s nothing to clearly link me to Akatsuki. Perhaps this idiot thinks I’m looking for vengeance too, vengeance against an infamous murderer. He shakes his head more emphatically, whispering harshly, “You’re too late. He’s already dead. The body is slated for autopsy to-”

My hand jerks and the pike meets his spine, then severs it. I draw it out and stab him in the chest for good measure, then stash his body in the shadows.

It’s bullshit, of course, but maybe it’s possible that Kakuzu has tricked the Leaf Nin into _thinking_ he’s dead, so he can lay up in wait in their morgue… it sounds like the kind of low, morbid thing he would try in a pinch, yeah, I can buy into that.

 _Because you can’t face the simple truth_.

There is no simple truth.

There’s little to sneak past in the morgue proper. Obviously the Leaf Nin have other priorities… my grave being disturbed being one, I suddenly think, and decide it’s time to put a little extra speed on. We need to get out of here before anyone thinks to set up more of a guard.

Still I can’t seem to help slowing down when I’m finally in the examination room. I whisper Kakuzu’s name, eyes on his naked, stiffly laid out form, hoping to see some hint of life. Because there has to be, even if he’s put himself way under to fool the idiots of this village… he’d be waiting for this, for me, ready to make our break for it. He’d be listening for me.

He’d know the sound of my voice.

Swallowing something thick that seems to have crowded into my throat, I ease up to his side, biting my lip as I take in the washed out wounds that have been punched into him.

His hearts…

It feels impossible, it feels like something that should have brought the world to a standstill; his hearts are gone. I notice the primary one right away, have to lift him up, shaking already and gasping for breath, to see the ragged holes in his back.

For a moment, I don’t know what to do. I think about running. I think about waiting here to be found and killing whoever shows up. I think about how unfair this fucking is.

Then I remember our encounter, all those years ago, in that abandoned shack. His hand on my heart, how he threatened to take it. My heart.

His are gone.

There are plenty of tools around, and I’m used to pain. The hardest part is splitting my own ribs and getting a decent grip on my own heart. It makes an ungodly unpleasant noise when I pull it free, thick ropes of veins trailing slick, bloody marks down my arm as I climb onto the table, perching carefully over him and nestling my heart into his chest cavity.

And wait.

Nothing’s happening and I’m beginning to panic, terror and anger overlapping because his body isn’t responding no matter how well I line the heart up in his chest. It just sits there, veins straggling back into my own open chest. Can’t we share one thing for once in our goddamned lives? Can’t one thing between up just be simple?

“You wanted it before, you bastard,” I snarl, shaking hands lifting the knife, bringing it back to my chest. It hurts so badly, so much more than what I want between us, when I start severing the veins. I’m growing dizzier by the moment, and still he’s not responding. He’s so cold, so cold. “You promised you’d take it, you promised you swore you guaranteed it, so take it, take it you bastard…”

Blood gouts from my beating heart and the drains that have become my aorta and pulmonaries, and I find myself unable to speak. I’m weakly fiddling with the precise placement of my heart in his chest, as if, if I could just line it up just so, he’d come back to me. Blackness dances before my eyes, red drenches us both.

Death has always seemed beautiful to me, but this, this is ugly. Unfair and bitter.

I slip away with my hands buried in his chest.


	12. Coda: Reasoning

“I just don’t get it,” Shizune said, watching as the scene was cleaned up, the albino ninja carefully, respectfully pulled off the stiff body of the stitched ninja. They were careful to keep his heart separate from his body – they were respectful of their enemies, but they preferred them dead all the same.

Tsunade looked over at her assistant, one brow perked up. “What don’t you get? The suicide?”

The younger woman nodded, frowning. “Well, yeah,” she drawled, letting the words trail out a little as she tried to think of how best to state what troubled her. “I mean, if he could get out of the pit Shikamaru blasted him into, why would he just come here to die?”

Looking back at the room, supervising the medical nin going about the business of this messy cleanup, the older woman gave the question some thought, then shrugged. All that really mattered was that both of them were dead. In a way, it was a relief that the Yugakure defector had made his way up here; it meant they could both be proven, beyond the shadow of a doubt, dead.

“I don’t know, Shizune,” the woman said, making way for the team that had prepped Hidan’s body for return to the pit he’d somehow crawled back out of.

“I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t think anybody cares.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's dead, Jim.


End file.
